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DEADLINES 


HENK/OUSHN-SMITH 


1 


BEING 


THR-QUAINT 


THHaviUSING 


THETRAGIC 


MEMOIRS  OFA 


CHICAGO 


(on) 


m  covrrT-M^GEE  m 


DESIGN-BV  JP2.S  HM^MAN.ROSSE 


Copyright  1922 

Covici-cMcGee 

Chicago 


First  Printing,  December,  1922 
Second  Printing,  February,  1923 


|HE  character  portraits  in 
this  book  are  composites.  The 
incidents  are  fictionized.  It  was 
inevitable  that  much  of  the  at- 
mosphere should  be  borrowed 
from  that  of  a  certain  famous 
and  fascinating  newsroom;  but 
the  author  believes  that  he  will 
be  forgiven  for  purloining  a  bit 
of  atmosphere.  It  is  his  hope 
that  no  one,  a  part  of  whose  like- 
ness  may  be  visible  in  the  mirror, 
will  imagine  that  he  discovers  a 
full-length  portrait  of  himself; 
that  not  a  line  of  the  writing  will 
cav^e  distress  to  a  single  one  of 
those  to  whom  the  book  may 
be  considered  dedicated  —  ''the 
boys." 

H.J.S. 


504u29 


Contents 


Page 

^  The  Day       . 1 

In  The  Cave  of  Tongues 25 

^  The  Star 41 

"^  The  Drunkard       55 

-  YouAg-Man-Going-Somewhere 69 

The  Cub       85 

The  Old  Man        97 

The  Poet 113 

The  Ghost        125 

The  Socialized  Copy-Boy       143 

The  Triumphant  Comma-Hound     ....  161 

Josslyn,— (Part  One) ,    .  179 

Josslyn,--(Part  Two) ,     .  207 

The  Late  Watch       .........  231 


[11 


DSAbLlNBS 


[13 
The  Day 


[I] 


T  is  still  dark  in  the  streets,  still 
dark  among  the  fiat  roofs  of  our 
block,  when  the  day  begins. 

It  is  a  winter  morning  before 
seven  o'clock.  Night  clings  to  the 
city.  Windows  in  some  of  the  tall 
with    a    radiance    never    extin- 


buildings  burn 
guished;  others  spring  into  color  ahead  of  the 
belated  sun.  On  street  cars  and  elevated  trains 
that  sail  through  the  darkness  like  lighted  ships 
the  seven  o'clock  workers  are  arriving  "down- 
town." They  are  shabbier,  more  morose,  than 
those  who  come  later.  It  is  hard  to  be  buoyant 
before  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

In  the  newspaper  office  desks  and  long  tables 
stand  in  a  twilight  due  to  glimmerings  that  pene- 
trate through  the  windows.  Typewriters,  gro- 
tesquely hooded,  lie  in  ranks.  Waste-baskets  yawn. 
The  wires,  clinging  to  the  desks,  are  asleep;  tele- 


DEADLINES [2} 

phones  have  not  yet  found  their  tongues.  The 
electric  contact  with  the  waking  world  is  in  sus- 
pension. What  happened  yesterday?  What  will 
happen  today?    The  wires  do  not  care. 

A  sleepy  boy,  shivering,  his  shoes  trickling 
melted  snow,  enters  the  spectral  room,  carrying 
a  bundle  of  morning  newspapers  which  he  lets 
fall  upon  a  table.  He  sighs.  He  turns  an  electric 
switch,  and  the  desks  and  tables  spring  into 
outline.  The  boy  stares  about  him,  stumbles  over 
a  waste-basket,  kicks  it  away,  sits  in  a  battered 
chair  in  front  of  the  mouth  of  a  tarnished  copper 
tube  that  runs  through  the  ceiling,  and  drowses. 
He  has  barely  settled  down  when  he  hears  men 
coming  in,  and  starts  up.  The  men  are  two ;  young, 
but  with  graying  hair.  They  have  not  much  to 
say  to  each  other.  They  do  not  even  glance  toward 
the  boy.  With  a  manner  somewhat  repressed,  but 
alert  enough,  they  go  to  desks,  call  out  for  the 
morning  papers,  and  start  slicing  them  up  with 
scissors.  Ten  minutes  go  by,  while  the  clock  ticks 
serenely  and  the  windows  become  grey  with  creep- 
ing daylight ;  daylight  that  sifts  down  among  the 
roofs  and  through  veils  of  smoke  and  fog,  that 
comes  cold  and  ashamed  and  reluctant.  It  envel- 
ops in  new  shadows  the  bowed  shoulders  of  the 
two  young  rnen,  touching  their  cheeks  with  its 
own  pallor,  casting  pale  reminders  upon  the  papers 
they  are  cutting.  One  man  glances  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  clock.  The  clock  presently  strikes 


m DEADLINES 

a  puny  but  peremptory  "Ping!"  It  is  seven  o'clock. 
The  day  has  begun. 

Now  enter  through  the  swinging  door,  which 
flies  back  and  forth  impatiently,  the  staff.  For 
some  time  the  tramping  of  their  feet,  the  sound 
of  their  breathing,  their  low  laughter,  the  swish 
and  creak  of  the  door,  fills  the  room.  There  are 
ruddy,  careless  fellows  in  this  company,  sanguine 
youths  to  whom  strain  and  difficulty  are  nothing. 
They  tramp,  tramp,  past  the  desks  and  tables,  doff 
overcoats,  strip  the  typewriters  of  their  hoods, 
whistle,  wink  at  each  other,  take  final  puffs  of  for- 
bidden cigarettes,  chuckle  together  over  amusing 
things  in  the  morning  papers,  and  meantime 
remain  secretly  alert — for  what?  Not  merely  for 
the  calling  of  a  name  by  the  city  editor  (now 
established  at  his  desk  and  scowling  at  clippings). 
Not  merely  for  the  chatter  of  a  telephone  bell, 
which  may  mean  a  day's  work  for  some  or  all. 
The  possibilities  are  vague.  The  tingling  of  blood 
means  only  that  this  is  a  new  day.  Something  is 
bound  to  happen.  They  do  not  mention  this  to 
each  other.  It  is  against  the  code  for  one  man  to 
say  to  his  mate :  "John,  this  may  be  a  momentous 
day.  It  may  bring  fame  to  someone.  This  may  be 
our  great  opportunity."  Instead,  one  reporter 
stretches  and  yawns:  "Well,  here  we  are  again, 
boys;  back  in  the  old  squirrel  cage,  to  do  a  few 
more  turns  for  the  antique  Press.  What  of  it? 
Say,  do  you  suppose  such  a  thing  could  happen  as 


DEADLINES m 

that  rd  get  an  interesting  assignment?  Where's 
the  bird  who  said  newspaper  work  was  excit- 
ing? .  .  .  ." 

They  are  like  hunting  dogs,  pretending  to  be 
asleep,  but  with  their  ears  cocked  for  the  mys- 
terious, the  shapeless  approaching  event  that  is 
in  the  spirit  of  the  day. 

'^  ^  [II] 

THE  room  is  now  full.  In  this  loft,  some  ninety 
feet  long  by  thirty  wide,  place  is  found  for 
nearly  forty  men.  At  one  end,  the  end  farthest 
from  the  thunder  of  "L**  trains,  sits  the  city 
editor,  surrounded  by  assistants,  tables,  tele- 
phones, filing  cases,  wire  baskets,  spindles,  and 
boys — in  that  order  of  usefulness.  Within  elbow 
distance  are  the  copy-readers,  whom  the  city 
editor  both  prizes  and  reviles.  They  bend  over 
their  long,  battered  desk,  some  of  them  chewing 
tobacco  unobtrusively,  and  jab  with  their  pencils 
at  piles  of  manuscript,  giving  it  an  earnest  and 
sardonic  scrutiny.  Just  beyond  them  sit  the 
telegraph  editors,  older  men  and  more  solemn  of 
face,  as  befits  those  whose  judgment  grapples 
with  majestic  cables  and  Washington  dispatches. 
The  chief  of  these  worthies  presides  at  a  roll- 
top  desk  upon  which  boys  periodically  dump  a 
mess  of  Associated  Press  sheets,  damp  from  their 
passage  through  the  tube.  The  desk  has  pigeon- 
holes  crammed   with    dusty   reports,    statistics, 


[jj DEADLINES 

speeches  not  yet  delivered,  and  biographies  of 
men  not  yet  dead.  The  telegraph  editor  is  just 
now  arguing  with  the  head  proofreader  over  the 
spelling  of  a  Russian  name.  The  argument  waxes 
hot.    We  pass  on. 

There  is  a  group  of  desks  pertaining  to  the 
three  men  who  attend  to  the  "make-up";  two  of 
the  arm-chairs  vacant  because  their  owners  are 
in  the  composing  room.  And  there  is  a  large  and 
excessively  dusty  desk  before  which,  with  his 
back  to  its  intricate  recesses,  sits  the  news  editor, 
from  whom  are  supposed  to  issue  ideas,  solutions, 
and  enthusiasm.  None  of  them  have  issued  from 
him  thus  far ;  but  the  day  is  still  young. 

Behind  all  this  is  the  ampler  space  occupied 
by  the  staff.  Three  reporters,  sprawled  over 
their  typewriters  and  strings  of  clippings,  are 
doggedly  pounding  out  "re-writes"  of  morning 
paper  articles.  Two  more  are  deciphering  notes 
of  matters  they  have  just  heard  over  the  tele- 
phone. Four  others  stand  by  a  window,  engaged 
in  brisk  discussion.  Are  they  discussing  politics, 
prurient  plays,  or  prohibition?  None  of  these 
things.  One  overhears:  "I  doubt  if  Wells  is 
such  a  scream  in  England  as  he  is  in  America. 
Now,  when  it  comes  to  Compton  Mackenzie " 

A  boy  approaches  one  of  these  reporters  and 
says,  triumphantly: 

"Wallace,  Mr.  Brown  wants  you." 

"Right." 


DEADLINES m 

The  literary  causerie  continues  during  Wallace's 
absence.  He  returns,  pulling  on  his  gloves.  A  stir 
among  the  unassigned. 

"IVe  got  to  interview  Sir  Scammon  Scammon- 
ton.    LaSalle  station/* 

"Sorry  for  you.    Must  be  dull  day." 

"It  is,"  grimaces  Wallace,  swaggering  off. 

A  dark-haired  reporter  sits  penciling  lines  upon 
rough  paper,  and  looking  out  dreamily  into  the 
hurly-burly  of  traffic  and  over  the  chaos  of  cor- 
nices and  water  tanks  visible  from  the  window. 
He  is  far,  far  away  from  all  this.  The  lines  he 
scrawls  are  mystical,  tender.  He  is  a  poet.  And 
he  is  a  very  good  reporter  but  his  habits 

A  stout  man  in  a  corner  is  writing :  "It  is  under- 
stood that  the  non-partisan  element  in  the  county 
board "  but  half  his  thoughts  are  upon  Japan- 
ese prints.    He  is  an  amateur  of  Japanese  prints. 

In  another  corner  a  tall  and  slightly  grey-haired 
reporter  stabs  with  his  cane  at  a  vagrant  cock- 
roach, while  shadows  of  reverie  and  discontent 
flit  across  his  face.  He  was  lately  in  Europe, 
whence  he  returned  in  disgust,  shouting  for  the 
"good  old  life."  Now  he  is  yearning  for  Europe 
again.  A  novel  that  he  began  to  write  lies,  yellow- 
ing, in  a  corner  of  his  desk.  He  would  like  to  go 
to  Mexico,  or  to  California.  He  applies  every  week 
for  some  trip  or  other.  Meantime  he  meticulously 
does  what  he  is  told  to  do. 


m DEADLINES 

And  then,  there  is  a  Cub,  who  sits  bolt  upright 
before  his  idle  typewriter,  eagerly,  lovingly  watch- 
ing the  distant  city  editor  from  whom  today — yes, 
this  very  day — ^may  come  that  "good  assignment." 
Something  exciting.  Good  Lord,  if  they  would 
only  let  him 

It  is  a  dull  day,  yet  there  is  a  resistless  move- 
ment of  the  commonplace  which  at  last  pulls 
nearly  all  these  men  from  their  trifling  or  their 
brooding  and  sends  them  out  into  the  city,  out  into 
the  slushy  and  gloom-fast  streets,  out  into  the 
enormous  glittering  skyscrapers,  to  run  down  little 
events.  They  scatter,  with  their  various  moods  of 
hope,  disgust,  scorn,  or  vivacity,  to  thread  their 
way  through  the  city. 

The  oflfice,  emptied  of  the  staff,  retains  only  the 
"desk  men."  These  are  now  a  little  relaxed.  Not 
only  has  the  day's  program  been  laid  down,  as  far 
as  possible,  but  the  first  edition,  which  has  fur- 
nished a  few  minutes  of  tension,  is  on  the  presses. 
From  regions  far  below  there  comes  a  muffled 
thunder,  a  jarring  that  faintly  shakes  the  desks. 
In  the  news-room  silence,  compared  with  the 
recent  pecking  of  typewriters  and  murmur  of 
voices,  prevails.  The  desk  men  straighten  up  in 
their  chairs,  sigh,  and  stretch.  One  of  them  pulls 
from  a  drawer  a  thick  novel  and  reads. 

It  is  a  pause.  But  during  this  pause  life  goes 
on,  climaxes  prepare.    Something  draws  nearer. 

The  managing  editor,  a  heavily-built  being  with 


DEADLINES m 

harsh  spectacles,  prowls  into  the  room,  gazes  about 
and  halts,  watched  apprehensively  by  a  benchful 
of  small  boys.  He  disregards  the  juvenile  array 
and  swings  heavily,  thoughtfully,  over  toward 
the  desk  of  the  news  editor. 

"What's  doing?"  he  demands,  in  that  voice 
whose  cadences  can  convey  so  much  wrath,  so 
much  bitterness — and  so  much  sweetness. 

"Nothing  'special." 

"Humph !"  exclaims  the  Old  Man,  and  retires  to 
his  den. 

[HI] 

npHE  Old  Man  has  officially  stigmatized  the  day 
-^  as  dull. 

Boredom  is  the  word. 

Take  a  score  of  keenly  sensitized  men,  confront 
them  with  routine,  and  the  result  is  boredom. 
However,  they  can  endure  this,  just  as  they  are 
able  to  stand  severe  and  long-continued  excite- 
ment. To  those  who  most  tremble  with  suspense 
or  burn  with  pride  there  comes  the  profoundest 
lethargy;  but  they  have  learned  to  swim  in  it 
without  impairment  of  the  spirit.  Here  is  a  faculty 
which  they  have  in  common  with  musicians, 
actors,  and  other  artists.  These  men  in  the  news 
room  have  traces  of  the  creative  temperament, 
which  hibernates,  then  springs  up  with  new  vigor. 
In  some  of  them  it  is  faded,  grown  old,  or  hidden 
behind  stoicism.  But  in  the  oldest  and  most 
morose  of  the  "desk  men"  there  lives  a  spark  of 


m DEADLINES 

dramatic  instinct,  which  lights  the  weariest  face 
at  the  coming  of  a  "good  story." 

Nothing  of  the  kind  now  animates  them.  They 
labor  on  in  an  incessancy  of  tasks  which  must  be 
done  at  once,  even  though  scarcely  worth  doing. 
They  must  be  rapid  and  skillful  without  being 
driven  by  interest.  Throughout  the  newspaper  i 
plant  a  finely-timed  engine,  deftly  blended  ofi 
the  human  and  mechanical,  is  turning,  turning.' 
Everything  must  move :  The  grotesque  arms  of  the 
linotypes,  the  lumpishly-moving  tables  of  the 
stereotypers,  the  gigantic,  glistening  coils  of  the 
presses,  the  rolling  sidewalks  upon  which  the 
finished  papers  slide  toward  the  deli verjv wagons. 
All  must  turn  with  the  clock-tick.  It  makes  no 
difference  whether  the  day  be  dull  or  thrilling. 
The  relentless  machinery  waits  for  its  injections  I 
of  human  intelligence.  The  world  waits  for  the 
news.  And  always,  among  these  men  in  the  news- 
room, there  is  a  dim  sense  of  the  mechanisms 
forever  at  work  below  them,  a  tinge  of  fear  lest, 
through  some  fault,  there  be  a  break  in  the 
process,  a  dreadful  pause  in  the  endless  tune.  So, 
driven  by  habit  and  by  their  sub-conscious  percep- 
tion of  their  membership  in  the  whole  activity  of 
the  building,  they  contribute  by  pencil-strokes,  by 
orders,  by  corrections  on  proofs,  to  the  flow  of  this 
activity. 

As  the  half -hours  pass  and  the  day  mounts  to 
its  meridian,  there  is  a  tensing  of  effort.    Almost 


DEADLINES noj 

casually,  two  editions  have  already  been  issued, 
inspected  and  forgotten.  But  now  one  can  feel 
the  climb  toward  a  greater  enterprise,  the  "home 
edition,"  the  daily  bugbear  whose  tradition  is  that 
it  must  be  more  comprehensive  and  correct  than 
either  of  its  predecessors.  There  is  no  more  lassi- 
tude along  the  copy-desks;  the  piles  of  unread 
manuscript  mount  too  fast.  The  staff  is  back,  for 
the  most  part,  and  the  spatter  of  typewriters 
deluges  the  silence.  Boys  run  by  with  clumsy 
steps.  Bells  ring.  The  air  hisses  in  the  pneumatic 
tubes.  The  long,  low  room  echoes  to  a  thousand 
movements,  a  thousand  utterances.  Yet  despite 
the  forte  of  the  news-room,  one  is  aware  of  the 
fortissimo  of  the  city  itself.  For  outside  of  the 
newspaper  office,  as  well  as  within  it,  the  day  is 
at  its  height.  Skyscrapers  now  are  belching  out 
lunch-hour  crowds,  and  the  shopping  streets  are 
filled  with  joyous,  vivid  streams  of  people.  Mes- 
sages from  this  turbulence  reach  the  newspaper 
office;  cries  come  across  the  roof  tops;  the 
symphony  of  the  city,  with  its  roars,  whistles, 
bellowings,  arrives  modified  but  clear.  And  if  one 
puts  his  ear  to  the  wires  he  can  fancy  that  he 
hears  the  shrill  and  terrible  voices  of  a  hundred 
other  cities  where  life  seethes,  even  though 
"nothing  is  happening."  One  has  a  vision  of 
potentialities  of  achievement  or  of  disaster  in 
these  agitated  centers  of  life.  Straight  out  of  the 
seeming  commonplace  of  their  movement  in  pur- 


[11] DEADLINES 

suit  of  tasks  or  fun  will  emerge  the  dramatic 
shock  that  the  news-room  is  waiting  for.  Some- 
thing is  bound  to  happen. 

[IV] 

SOMETHING  does  happen. 
First  there  is  the  sharp  outcry  of  the  Asso- 
ciated Press  telephone,  distinct  from  all  the  other 
bell-signals.  The  telegraph  editor  picks  up  the 
receiver  and  listens.  Without  a  quiver  of  lips  or 
eyebrows  he  reaches  for  paper,  and  scrawls.  The 
vigilant  news  editor  sees  the  rigidity  of  his  shoul- 
ders, the  slight  gleam  of  his  eye,  and  rises.  The 
copy-readers  look  up.  An  instinct  awakened  by 
tiny  signs,  too  tiny  for  the  eye  of  laity,  warns 
"the  desk"  that  this  bulletin  has  a  high  voltage. 

The  news  editor  stands  reading  as  the  hand  of 
the  telegraph  editor  traces : 

"Washtn  .  .  .  bomb  on  steps  .  .  .  treasury 
building  ...  2  killed." 

The  telegraph  editor  hangs  up  the  receiver.  For 
an  instant  he  and  his  chief  stare  into  each  other's 
eyes.  But  nothing  is  said.  The  implications  of 
this  message  are  self-evident. 

"Ask  Mr.  Barlow  to  come  here,"  the  news  editor 
murmurs  to  a  boy. 

While  the  boy  skates  nonchalantly  off,  the 
editor,  with  a  hand  that  cannot  keep  pace  with 
his  brain,  is  writing  notes  that  fly  from  his  pad 
to  distant  parts  of  the  building.    Simultaneously 


\ 

\ 


DEADLINES U2] 

he  is  calling  earnestly  on  the  house  telephone  for 
the  circulation  department. 

Barlow,  the  make-up  editor,  enters,  heavy-set, 
frowning  at  being  called  from  his  nearly-com- 
plete pages  of  the  home  edition.  At  his  heels 
treads  easily  but  ominously  the  Old  Man,  whose 
presence  pervades  the  room  like  fate. 

The  news  editor  flies  at  Barlow  and  mutters  to 
him  a  paraphrase  of  the  bulletin,  which  by  this 
time  is  being  masticated  by  a  linotype  machine. 
Barlow's  frown  vanishes.  He  gives  an  eager  nod, 
seizes  a  just- written  sheet  of  paper  headed  "eight- 
column  line,  rush  extra,"  and  takes  it  with  him  as 
he  makes  long,  heavy  strides  toward  the  compos- 
ing-room door.  His  mind's  eye  has  mapped  out  a 
new  first  page.  At  the  door  he  stumbles  against  a 
boy  and  leaves  behind  him  an  echo  of  brief  pro- 
fanity. 

The  Old  Man  is  told  the  news. 

"I  thought  it  would  happen  some  day,"  he 
remarks.  He  eyes  calmly  the  "telegraph  desk" 
where  now  two  men  are  working  frantically,  while 
another  takes  more  bulletins  from  the  telephone. 
Elsewhere  in  the  room  there  is  little  commotion. 
The  usual  group  of  reporters  are  arguing  the 
usual  topics.  "Peck-peck"  goes  the  Cub's  type- 
writer, grinding  out  some  trifle  or  other. 

Suddenly  the  young  city  editor  emerges  from 
his  nest  of  telephones  and  comes  down  the  room 
at  a  half -trot. 


[13] DEADLINES 

"They've  tried  to  blow  up  the  federal  building 
here,"  he  snaps,  with  a  half-joyous,  half-bitter 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  He  dashes  back  to  his  desk, 
followed  by  the  shadowy  bulk  of  the  Old  Man. 

The  news  editor  begins  to  swear,  and  laughs 
instead,  having  in  mind  Barlow  and  his  forms. 
"This  will  finish  him,"  he  thinks,  as  he  speeds 
toward  the  composing  room.  Out  there  he  finds 
Barlow  and  his  assistant  under  full  steam  "break- 
ing up  the  paper,"  ordering  gleaming  stacks  of 
type  about,  shouting  at  printers  above  the  per- 
petual clackety-swish  of  the  linotypes,  crossing 
out  and  writing  in  words  upon  the  "schedules" 
that  name  the  leading  articles  for  various  pages. 
The  coatless  printers  paw  the  type  with  their 
blackened  fingers,  chew  tobacco,  and  register 
unconcern.  Type  lies  strewn,  in  bundles  of  lines, 
all  over  the  "stone."  Long  galleys  of  brass  are 
piled  up  like  cord-wood.  Up  to  the  high,  glass- 
roofed  ceiling  resounds  the  turmoil  of  the  "stone." 
The  battered  clock  points  imperturbably  to  12 :05. 
And  at  12 :25  all  this  puzzle  must  be  cleared. 

Taking  Barlow  by  the  elbow,  the  news  editor 
speaks  in  his  ear.  The  color  surges  into  Barlow's 
face.  Still  speechless,  he  darts  to  the  half -com- 
plete first-page  "form,"  and  roars  at  the  printer 
whose  hands  are  flying  over  its  columns.  The 
printer  hears  and  nods.  He  must  change  every- 
thing. What  of  it?  All  in  the  day's  work.  But  the 
composing-room  foreman,  sauntering  up,  tosses  in 


DEADLINES uii 

the  remark,  **Tearin'  up  again?  You'll  never  make 
it,"  and  with  a  wave  toward  the  clock,  passes  on. 

"We've  got  to  make  it,  Jim,"  the  news  editor 
cries  after  him.  Then,  like  a  man  watching  two 
boiling  kettles  at  once,  he  hastens  back  to  the 
news-room. 

Within  the  last  two  minutes  the  news-room 
has  been  transformed  in  spirit.  Everybody  has 
straightened;  everybody  has  caught  the  stroke. 
Who  said  newspaper  work  was  monotonous  ?  seems 
to  shine  from  the  faces.  It  is  gorgeous.  The 
telegraph  editor  and  the  city  editor  are  in  two 
separate  whirlpools  of  movement.  Boys  rush  at 
the  telegraph  editor  and  slam  sheets  of  copy  upon 
his  desk;  the  man  at  the  telephone  shoves  scrib- 
bled slips  toward  him.  He  rapidly  assembles  and 
groups  these,  discarding  some,  piecing  others 
together,  laboring  with  his  whole  mind  to  form  a 
story  sequential  and  lucid.  A  series  of  flashes  are 
passing  through  his  mind:  "Doubt  if  they'll  get 
this  bulletin  in.  .  .  .  There'll  be  an  awful  mess  for 
the  next  edition."  And  farther  back  in  his  mind 
occur  thoughts  more  private,  such  as:  "That 
rumor  the  other  day  about  the  reds  was  right," 
and  "I  suppose  the  wrong  man  will  be  caught,  as 
usual."  But  his  routine  brain-cells,  his  hands,  go 
on  shaping,  shaping.  And  save  for  an  out-thrust 
lower  lip  he  betrays  no  agitation. 

The  city  editor  is  twice  as  busy  as  this.  He  has 
had  to  scratch  off  a  dozen  lines  of  copy  for  the 


[15  1 DEADLWES 

home  edition,  to  dispatch  six  men  to  the  federal 
building,  answer  (and  get  rid  of)  three  persons 
wanting  to  know  if  he  was  "posted,"  listen  to 
general  orders  from  the  Old  Man,  alter  a  headline 
that  did  not  "fit,"  and  map  out  a  sort  of  program 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  His  mind  is  ablaze  with 
enterprise  and  pierced  with  apprehensions.  Who 
knows  but  a  rival  paper  has  already  beaten  him? 
He  will  not  be  beaten.  He  sends  out  to  every  part 
of  himself  a  desperate  signal  to  function,  to  be 
alive.  His  tongue  is  dry;  his  voice  threatens  to 
scream.  He  is  at  bay,  fighting  an  invincible  alli- 
ance of  enemies :  The  clock,  his  rivals,  the  tangle 
of  things  to  do,  his  own  rebellious  nerves,  the 
nerve  reactions  of  everybody  else.  He  calls  upon 
his  uttermost  reserve.  He  is  four  men  in  one.  He 
is  enraged  at  life — but  he  is  deliriously  happy. 
And  there  flits  through  him  a  wan  joke :  "I  sup- 
pose the  police  will  call  it  a  sewer-gas  explosion." 
The  joke,  which  goes  unspoken,  is  extinguished 
by  a  wave  of  perception,  vaguer  than  these  words, 
but  suggesting  to  him  that  society  is  a  brutal  and 
turbulent  thing,  and  bringing  to  him  like  a  passing 
flash  of  the  cinema,  a  picture  of  the  federal  build- 
ing portico  in  ruins,  and  of  bodies  lying  there. 

Through  all  this  pierces  the  realization  that  the 
home  edition  has  gone  to  press.  The  turmoil 
around  him  is  no  less,  but  here  is  the  face  of  his 
friend,  the  news  editor,  emerging  from  the 
delirium. 


DEADLINES ny 

"How's  it  going,  George?" 

"All  right,"  he  hears  himself  reply. 

Wallace,  the  reporter,  leans  up  against  the  desk. 

"Well,  boss,"  inquires  Wallace  with  a  subdued 
twinkle,  "how  much  on  the  great  Sir  Scammon 
Scammonton?    He  says " 

The  city  editor  becomes  aware  of  Wallace,  and 
halts  him  with: 

"John,  jump  down  to  federal  building  .  .  .  take 
taxi  .  .  .  forget  about  that  damned  lord " 

Wallace  is  off,  murmuring  quaintly:  "I  obey, 
boss,  I  obey." 

City  editor  to  news  editor:  "They  think  there 
are  six  dead  down  there.  A  delivery  wagon  was 
blown  up.  There  are  pieces  of  horse  all  over  the 
street.  The  district  attorney  says — — " 

"We'll  have  to  make  four  separate  stories  of  it 
for  the  First  Final.   At  least  four " 

"I  know.  It's  a  big  plot,  of  course.  Oh,  is  that 
Billy  on  the  wire?    Give  him  here." 

The  news  editor  moves  on,  devoting  a  glance  to 
the  bowed  backs  of  the  local  copy-readers,  to  whom 
the  fury  that  began  with  the  telegraph  desk  has 
now  been  transmitted.  Their  eyes  bulge  with  the 
interest,  the  horror,  of  what  they  are  reading. 
One  counts  with  his  fingers  the  number  of  letters 
required  for  a  certain  heading.  A  book  that 
another,  a  placid,  grey-haired  man,  was  reading, 
has  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  lies  open  at  the  title 
page,  "Growth  of  the  Soil." 


ti7] DEADLINES 

Reporters  who  have  come  in  already  from  the 
explosion  are  mauling  their  typewriters,  slamming 
the  cylinders  back  and  forth  with  a  rattle  like 
rifle  fire.  A  constant  yell  of  "Boy !"  Dust,  colored 
by  the  pale  noonday  sunlight,  swims,  serene  and 
beautiful  above  their  heads.  Murmurs,  chuck- 
lings,  imprecations  mingle  in  a  flow  of  sound ;  the 
expressions  of  the  fever  that  has  seized  the  staff. 
They  are  painting,  painting.  The  picture  will  be 
hurled  out  into  the  streets,  seen,  and  lost.  All  are 
artists  now,  co-operating  on  the  big  canvas  of  the 
First  Final.  They  are  instinctively  making  art  of 
it,  discarding,  heightening  and  coloring.  Yes,  they 
color  some  things,  so  that  the  hasty  reader  can 
tell  them  as  more  important  than  others.  /  Maybe 
they  do  not  distort  facts;  they  do  not  so  much 
distort  as  rearrange.  They  suggest  perspectives, 
and  introduce  good  lighting  for  this  tale  of  tales. 

All  the  while,  into  their  hands  is  being  poured 
more  material,  and  more.  The  wires  say  that  the 
nation  is  aroused.  "The  White  House  has  let  it  be 
known  that  .  .  ."  The  wires  sing  with  theories, 
conjectures,  revelations.  The  tragedy  here  at  the 
federal  building  is  in  the  foreground.  A  notebook 
has  been  found  among  the  rags  of  one  of  the 
corpses,  with  code  words  in  it.  Wallace  is  reading 
sentences  from  this  book  over  the  'phone.  The 
district  attorney  is  giving  out  a  long  statement. 
Every  minute  a  member  of  the  staff  enters  with 
details  which  he  regards  as  "bigger  stuff  than 


DEADLINES yy 

anything."  Evidently  the  mystery  of  this  story  is 
deeper  than  we  thought.  It  will  be  unraveling 
itself  for  days.  We  shall  be  pestered  with  it  for 
days.    What  a  plague !    But  what  joy ! 

Meantime,  behold  it  is  two  o'clock,  and  the  First 
Final  stares  us  in  the  face.  Ah,  here  comes  the 
Old  Man.  "The  composing  room  is  swamped." 
We  thought  so.  "Throw  away  everything  except 
explosion  stuff."  The  market  reports  must  go  in 
uncorrected.  The  speech  of  a  distinguished  guest 
at  a  luncheon  goes  on  the  floor.  The  Cub  has 
written  five  hundred  words  about  scenes  at  hos- 
pitals and  is  told  he  is  a  fool. 

The  inexorable  clock  —  the  damnable,  gliding 
clock.    The  waiting  machines.  The  waiting  world. 

We  are  desperate  men. 

We  go  to  the  "stone"  to  make  up  the  First 
Final.  Once  more,  chaos ;  bigger  heaps  of  galleys, 
greater  muddles  of  type.  Parts  of  stories  are  lost ; 
parts  of  others  are  still  lagging  on  the  linotypes. 
We  lose  our  heads,  and  quarrel.  We  become  chil- 
dren, and  say:  "Who's  blaming  me  for  it?"  "I 
told  him  to  do  it."  "Good  God,  this  gang  is  going 
to  pieces." 

The  type  pours  to  the  "stone"  from  all  sides. 
The  pages  lie,  broken,  hopeless. 

This  time  we  shall  never  "get  out." 

And  suddenly  we  find  that  it  is  all  done.  The 
forms  are  full.    The  last  one  is  being  locked  up, 


[19] DEADLINES 

and    slid    into    the    outstretched    hands    of    the 
stereotypers. 

We  glance  at  each  other,  wipe  off  sweaty  and 
grin. 

[V] 

THIS  is  a  splendid  product  of  ours,  after  all. 
The  boys  are  bringing  in  papers,  staggering 
under  the  bundles.  We  spread  them  out  on  the 
desks,  admire  and  criticize.  It  is  scarcely  possible 
we  did  this.  Thirty  minutes,  twenty  minutes,  ago 
we  were  writing  the  words  that  now  peer  at  us 
from  the  pages,  faintly  familiar  creations  that 
have  arrayed  themselves  in  a  manner  distinctively 
their  own.  It  is  all  there  as  we  planned  it  in  our 
frenzy.  The  house  has  risen  from  that  chaos  at 
the  "stone."  The  event  that  has  shaken  the 
country's  nerves  lies  there  embodied  in  types  of 
varying  blackness  and  size,  making  a  structure 
with  girders  and  gables,  with  foundations  and 
flourishes.  A  structure  nevertheless  built  to  last 
but  a  day,  to  outlast  scarcely  even  our  pride  in  it. 

Our  pride  in  it  is  momentary.  We  are  conscious 
that  we  have  conquered.  This  feeling  is  confirmed 
when  our  rivals  are  brought  in,  and  their  paltry 
efforts  to  keep  pace  with  us  are  seen.  But  we  are 
too  wise,  or  too  weary,  to  gloat  more  than  for 
that  moment.  Tomorrow  may  snatch  this  triumph 
away  from  us.    And  besides 

It  is  the  Old  Man's  voice: 


DEADLINES 


[20] 


"Look  here,  we  say  in  this  head  that  three 
wheels  of  the  wagon  were  blown  off;  but  in  the 
eye-witness  account  it  says -" 

And  he  lays  a  broad  thumb  upon  the  column. 

Two  or  three  men,  among  them  the  city  editor, 
respectfully  examine  the  discrepancy. 

"There^s  always  something  to  spoil  it  all," 
grumbles  the  Old  Man,  and  bears  his  newspaper 
away,  grasped  in  both  hands,  while  the  staff 
exchanges  rueful  winks.  The  city  editor  slips  on 
his  coat  and  says  savagely  to  the  news  editor:  "If 
I  don't  show  up  tomorrow  you  can  guess  why." 
His  eyes  burn  in  his  pale  young  face.  He  flings 
himself  out,  biting  off  the  end  of  a  cigar.  The  eyes 
of  the  grey-haired  copy-reader  follow  him  humor- 
ously, tenderly. 

The  news  editor  turns  to  the  disposal  of  mat- 
ters for  the  afternoon.  The  greater  part  of  the 
afternoon  still  remains.  There  are  still  "late 
developments."  There  will  be  a  "rush  hour  extra." 
The  news  editor  walks  back  through  the  room, 
remarking  to  the  "desk"  as  he  goes :  "Nobody  off 
early  today.    We'll  need  all  hands." 

They  look  up,  unamazed.  Were  it  to  go  on 
forever,  they  would  still  be  unamazed. 


[Vl] 
pjUT  at  last  it  is  five  o'clock,  and  the  very  last 
^-^  extra  of  all  has  been  patched  up,  and  there  is 
nothing  more  to  do. 


f2i]  DEADLINES 


Darkness  has  come  again.  It  seems  now  to 
have  been  scarcely  ten  minutes  since  the  first  of 
those  alert  figures  entered  through  the  swinging 
door;  but  the  evidences  of  a  complete  day  are  all 
about :  Waste-paper  ankle  deep  around  the  desks ; 
waste-baskets  crammed  with  torn  newspaper 
sheets;  pencil-butts,  proofs,  crumpled  notes. 

The  men,  the  last  of  them,  are  putting  on  hats 
and  coats  and  departing.  They  go  wearily  and 
sulkily.  The  emotional  storm  in  which  they  have 
been  tossed  has  left  them  chilled.  The  more  thrill- 
ing the  day,  the  more  leaden  its  close.  This  prod- 
uct, conceived  with  such  skill  and  speed  and 
evolved  with  such  a  fury  of  zeal,  is  already 
scarcely  more  than  waste-paper.  The  men  tramp 
gloomily  into  the  hall,  turning  up  the  collars  of 
their  overcoats  and  peering  into  the  shadows  of 
the  gloomy  corridor.  They  go  down  the  elevator, 
grumbling,  but  still  with  a  vestige  of  elation. 

"Well,  that  was  some  day,"  they  mutter. 

**Some  day,"  echo  the  dying  voices  of  the  lino- 
types. 

''Some  day,"  groan  the  presses  from  the  base- 
ment. 

The  men,  slackened  in  spirit,  cynical  about  it 
all,  exuding  revolt,  are  happy  in  spite  of  every- 
thing. ''Some  day,"  to  be  sure.  They  will  tell 
their  wives  and  children  about  it.  They  will  meet 
acquaintances  who  will  respectfully  ask  their 
opinions,  because  they  are  newspaper  men. 


DEADLINES [22] 

There  are  new  furrows  in  their  faces ;  but  their 
youth  is  inextinguishable. 

The  grey-haired  copy-reader,  who  is  last  to 
leave,  watches  them  go,  turns  out  a  light  or  two, 
and  slowly  prepares  for  the  street.  And  he  thinks 
about  these  men,  whom,  in  a  way,  he  loves : 

"I  wonder  what  draws  them  into  this  game?  I 
wonder  why  they  keep  at  it,  the  game  being  what 
it  is.  I  wonder  what  the  fascination  of  news  is. 
I  wonder  what  news  really  is.     .     .     . 

"The  continuousness  of  it  all;  the  knowledge 
that  no  matter  what  we  do  today,  we  must  do 
better  tomorrow.     .     .     . 

"The  unendurable  boredom;  the  unendurable 
excitement 

"Maybe  we  stay  on  because  life  is  like  that,  and 
we  get  more  of  life  here  than  somewhere  else." 

[VII] 

THE  only  lights  remaining  are  two  that  burn 
dispiritedly  at  either  end  of  the  long  room.  The 
wires  sleep  again,  oblivious  of  the  sparkling,  but 
dreadful  world.    The  battlefield  is  deserted. 

Now  enter  two  sad-faced,  elderly  males  in  soiled 
and  shapeless  clothing,  carrying  large  sacks.  Into 
these  they  dump  contents  of  waste-baskets,  and 
bundles  of  scraps.  They  seem  very,  very  old  and 
depressed.  In  and  out  among  the  desks  they  go, 
muttering  to  themselves,  and  clearing  away  the 
dull  traces  of  the  splendid  task.    These  specters 


t23]     DEADLINES 

know  nothing  of  the  efforts  or  the  victories  just 
recorded.  The  voices  of  the  city,  the  cries  of 
newsboys,  the  tootings  and  tinklings  of  the 
streets,  are  nothing  at  all  to  these  aged  scav- 
engers.   Outlived  ....  all  outlived. 

Having  finished  their  funereal  task,  they  go  out 
and  the  room  is  left  to  its  memories,  the  wires  to 
their  slumber. 

So  ends  the  day. 


[25] 


DEADLINES 


[n] 

In  the  Cave  of  Tongues 


[I] 


j  OUR  stories  removed  from  the 
news-room,  but  connected  with  it 
impalpably  in  a  thousand  ways,  is 
our  haunt. 

This  haunt  is  a  cigar  store 
^1  which  faces  the  street  from  our 
building,  and  is  indeed  often  mistaken  for  our 
front  door.  In  winter  storms  we  turn  up  our 
collars  and  skate  joyously  the  ten  paces  distance, 
plunging  into  the  warm  fog  of  the  store  like  sheep 
in  a  blizzard.  In  summer  we  go  hatless  and  stand 
languidly  in  the  door  of  tl>e  place,  or  sit  on  the 
benches  within,  sheltered  from  the  sun.  At  all 
times  we  talk.  There  is  no  place  like  this  for  talk- 
ing with  unbridled  tongues. 

The  cigar  store  has  no  plate-glass  cases,  no 
leather-covered  chairs,  no  polished  metal,  no  pretty 
pictures.  It  is  ancient,  foul,  dilapidated,  frowsy. 
Around  its  walls  run  the  benches,  which  are  cov- 
ered with  moth-eaten  carpet.  Benches  and  floor 
are  strewn  with  burnt  matches,  bits  of  paper,  and 


DEADLINES ^26j 

dried  mud.  In  the  misty  windows  hang  limply  on 
wires  a  few  story-magazines,  while  in  other 
conspicuous  spots  stand  theater  posters,  signs 
advertising  many  species  of  cigarettes,  and  piles 
of  "peppy"  reading.  In  ridiculous  contrast,  the 
ceiling  is  lofty  and  handsomely  carved.  Once,  in  a 
prior  incarnation,  this  was  a  bar-room.  Now  it  is 
a  store,  with  the  pressroom  just  beyond  a  par- 
tition. 

A  single  case  contains  the  cigars.  It  is  heaped 
promiscuously  with  boxes  of  cheap  smokes,  chew- 
ing-gum, and  candy.  In  a  clear  space  the  vivacious 
proprietor  shakes  endless  dice  with  noisy  patrons. 

We  sit  on  the  benches  in  this  cave,  and  are 
utterly  at  home. 

[11] 

NOON  of  a  winter  day  has  passed.  The  home 
edition  has  just  been  "sent  away."  The  lunch 
hour  has  released  not  only  men  from  the  news- 
room, but  an  assorted  lot  from  other  departments. 
Here  are  several  printers,  one  in  mammoth  over- 
alls, another  in  cheviot  but  without  collar  or  tie, 
still  another  properly  clad,  except  his  feet,  upon 
which  he  wears  the  shattered,  comfortable  shoes 
that  ease  his  work.  Present  also  are  two  or  three 
wagon  drivers,  sharp-faced  youths  whose  cheeks 
bulge  with  tobacco,  whose  overcoats  are  drawn  in 
by  belts,  and  whose  legs  are  shapeless  with  pad- 
ding. Elbow  to  elbow  with  these  are  several  sleek 
young  advertising  men,  with  their  cigarettes. 


[271 DEADLINES 

We  of  the  news-room  sit  a  little  apart,  as  befits 
our  caste.  With  unseeing  eyes  we  gaze  at  the 
group  shaking  dice.  The  spasmodic  "click"  regis- 
ters nothing  to  us,  accustomed  as  we  are  to  the 
whole  bedlam  of  noises  within  and  without  the 
store.  For  we  are  habituated  to  this  haunt,  and  to 
this  street,  just  as  the  forester  is  habituated  to 
his  forest  and  hears  nothing,  unless  by  an  effort, 
of  the  poem  of  sighing  trees,  crooning  insects,  and 
twittering  birds.  There  is  nothing  noticeable  by 
us  in  the  street,  where  the  elevated  trains  flee  by 
with  insane  clatter,  where  trucks  and  street  cars 
manage  a  slow  progress  under  the  spur  of  profane 
warnings,  and  where  the  tread  of  people  is  heavy 
and  constant.  Even  a  fire-engine  can  pass,  with 
its  inspired  shriek,  and  scarcely  we  lift  an  eyelid. 

The  city  is  our  cradle,  and  its  song  is  a  soporific. 
We  sit  pondering  this  thing  or  that,  oblivious  to 
the  chatter  about  us,  lazily  annoyed  at  the  clamor 
of  the  dice-shakers.  There  is  really  only  one 
important  thing,  besides  keeping  our  cigars  and 
pipes  aglow.  It  is  that  the  badly-hung  door  of  the 
wretched  cave  persists  in  hanging  ajar  after  each 
person  comes  in,  and  the  draft  chills  our  ankles. 

"Shut  the  door!"  we  yell. 

Somebody  goes  out.  Of  course,  he  has  left  the 
door  ajar. 

"There,  that  damn  fool  has  left  it  open  again." 

It  is  our  sole  grievance.  Someone  must  sulkily 
rise  and  push  the  door  to,  and  then  upon  the  next 


DEADLINES    [28j 

arrival  the  process  must  be  repeated.  It  intensi- 
fies our  disbelief  in  the  progress  of  the  human 
race.  More  and  more  sulkily  we  smoke,  and 
smoke,  and  smoke. 

[HI] 

TpHERE  are  three  of  us  sitting  in  a  row — 
•*•  Brown,  the  city  editor.  Barlow,  the  make-up 
editor,  and  myself.  All  three  are  still  a  trifle  dazed, 
a  little  breathless,  from  the  effort  of  "sending 
away  the  home  edition."  It  was  no  worse  than 
usual,  but  it  was  worse  than  the  devil.  The  mem- 
ory of  those  exasperations  is  fading  now,  but 
they  have  left  us  feeling  battered  and  uneasy. 

Barlow,  his  full  body  held  erect  and  his  cigar 
sticking  straight  out,  has  shrouded  himself  in 
reticence.  The  city  editor  crosses  and  uncrosses 
his  legs,  and  murmurs : 

"I  got  a  bit  excited  up  there.  It's  the  very  hell 
to  get  excited  like  that.  Always  say  things  I 
regret." 

This  is  an  oblique  apology  to  Barlow,  who  emits 
a  muffled  sound,  ambiguous  but  probably  amiable. 
We  judge,  rightly,  that  the  incident  beginning 
at  "the  stone"  is  closed.  There  are  twenty  such 
incidents  a  day. 

"My  wife  says,"  goes  on  the  city  editor,  "that 
I'm  too  well-balanced.  'You're  so  well-balanced,' 
she  complains,  as  though  it  was  a  crime.  She  gets 
mad  because  I  don't  fly  out  and  break  things  at 
home.    Imagine  that!" 


[29] DEADLINES 

"Shut  the  door!"  someone  bawls.  There  are 
grins  among  the  drivers,  and  a  subdued  voice: 
"Them  cold-blooded  editors." 

"It's  indifference,  plain  indifference,  that  makes 
me  seem  so  well-balanced,"  further  explains  the 
city  editor.  "I  don't  get  worked  up  enough  even 
here,  maybe.  The  Old  Man  says,  'You're  so  damn 
calm.'  Well,  if  I  am,  it's  because  I  don't  attach 
much  importance  to  little  things.  Big  ones,  either. 
I  don't  care  if  the  staff  quits,  I  don't  care  if  we 
get  scooped,  I  wouldn't  mind  if  the  paper  went 
bankrupt,  or  the  whole  population  got  smallpox, 
or  the  human  race  went  and  got  itself  hung." 

(A  flicker  of  a  smile  on  Barlow's  face.) 

The  city  editor,  continuing:  "When  I  say  I 
don't  care,  I  mean  that  when  I'm  taking  my  rest, 
between  nightmares,  I  can  let  myself  down  into  a 
pile  of  soft  cushions  of  absolute  apathy  about  the 
fate  of  anybody  or  anything.  It's  a  great  rest. 
It  bores  one,  but  it's  a  relief.  There's  no  such 
vacation  for  the  mind  as  being  totally  bored." 

"The  trouble  with  us,"  I  suggest,  "is  too  much 
neurosis." 

"Too  much  adrenal  gland,"  corrects  the  city 
editor. 

Barlow  takes  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  is 
listened  to. 

"Too  much  of  everything  except  income,"  says 
he,  and  restores  the  cigar. 

"That,"  says  the  city  editor  semi-officially,  "is 


DEADLINES yoj 

a  matter  to  be  taken  up  with  the  Old  Man."  Clear- 
ing his  throat,  he  proceeds :  "But  the  real  question 
is,  how  to  face  life;  that's  it,  how  to  face  life. 
Whether  to  take  it  hard  or  easy.  Whether  to  let 
your  imagination  build  up  tremendous  obstacles, 
and  then  go  around  breathing  like  an  exhaust  pipe 
fancying  you're  overcoming  them,  or  just  to  take 
things  as  they  come  and  go  smilin'  through.  I  was 
taught  to  do  the  latter,  but" — he  strikes  another 
match — "somehow  it  doesn't  work." 

"And  no  wonder,"  growls  Barlow. 

"No,  it's  no  wonder,"  assents  the  news  editor. 
"Say,  boys,  when  you  figure  what  our  life  is  like, 
how  we're  forever  straining  ahead,  looking  out  for 
the  least  little  atom  of  possibility  of  a  blunder  and 
realizing  that  we've  only  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
of  getting  through  a  day  without  a  kick,  why  .  ." 

"Incidentally,  are  we  all  hooked  up  to  cover  that 
hanging  tomorrow?"  I  inquire. 

"Absolutely.  As  I  was  saying,  we  being  aware 
that  we  are  born  to  trouble,  and  our  luck  is  usually 
no  good,  what's  the  chance  of  our  being  optimists? 
Poor.    Now  .  .  ." 

"Here  comes  a  chap  who's  a  regular  walking 
Pollyanna,"  mutters  Barlow. 

"Oh,  that's  only  an  advertising  solicitor.  He's 
got  to  look  that  way." 

The  newcomer  enters,  eyed  by  the  participants 
in  an  interrupted  dice  game,  selects  a  cigar,  lights 
it,  flips  the  skirts  of  his  overcoat  airily  out  into  the 


[31] DEADLINES 

street  and  vanishes,  pursued  by  shouts  of  "Shut 
the  door!" 

We  have  lost  the  thread  of  our  conversation. 
The  crowd  and  the  smoke  seem  thicker,  as  we 
muse.  An  elderly  printer  is  heard  to  say,  "The 
dentist  claims  I'll  feel  better  when  they're  all  out." 
We  smoke. 

[IV] 

A  GUST  of  wind,  a  momentary  louder  roar  from 
the  street,  and  a  long-legged  youth,  hatless, 
bursts  into  the  store,  laughing. 

It  is  the  Cub.  He  seats  himself  circumspectly 
at  a  little  distance  from  us,  cocks  his  cigarette  at 
the  same  angle  as  Barlow's  cigar,  and  inspects 
his  finger-nails.  We  do  not  notice  him;  yet  his 
entrance  has  somehow  affected  the  turn  of  our 
thought.    For  the  worse,  too. 

"Here  we  are,  in  this  poisonous  old  cave,  worn 
out,  tired  of  it  all,  glad  to  be  let  breathe,"  grum- 
bles the  city  editor.  "Another  edition  to  think 
about  in  half  an  hour.  Why  aren't  we  over  at  some 
club,  lolling  over  our  coffee  and  cigars,  and  maybe 
organizing  a  billiard  game?  Why  aren't  we  streak- 
ing for  the  2:15  train  with  our  golf  clubs?" 

"Why  don't  we  go  into  advertising?"  demands 
Barlow. 

"Or  insurance " 

"Or  selling  bonds." 

"Anything — anything  that  would  make  a  fellow 
feel  like  a  white  man.    This  news  game  is  like 


DEADLINES [^ 

being  caught  in  a  fly-wheel  by  the  sleeve.  It 
whirls  you  around  like  a  plaything,  cracks  you 
bit  by  bit,  and  throws  you  aside,  limp  and  shat- 
tered.   Why  .  .  ." 

I  observe  the  bright,  scandalized  stare  of  the 
Cub,  and  interpose :  "A  great  game,  all  the  same." 

Barlow  and  the  city  editor  simultaneously 
remove  cigars  and  expectorate. 

"Where  does  it  get  you?"  scoffs  a  listener. 

"Yes,  where?"  from  the  city  editor.  His  gloomy 
gaze  encompasses  the  Cub,  and  he  impulsively 
flings  a  question: 

"You,  kid,  where  do  you  expect  the  newspaper 
business  to  land  you?" 

The  Cub,  startled  at  being  addressed,  gulps, 
drops  ashes,  then  replies,  blushing. 

"Why — I'd  like  to  be  London  correspondent." 

(Titters  from  the  listening  group  of  printers.) 

"To  London!  Is  that  all?  Think  you  can  become 
Young-Man-Going-Somewhere  in  three  months? 
Sinful  Goode,  eh?"  But  some  memory  of  his  own 
lost  ambitions,  perhaps,  brings  a  kindlier  note 
into  the  city  editor's  voice.  "Kid,"  he  says,  "that's 
where  we  all  wanted  to  go — once.  Certainly.  We 
would  all  be  London  correspondents,  or  something, 
if  .  .  .  It's  all  right.    Dream  on." 

The  Cub  says  nothing. 

"Did  you  ever  ask  for  a  foreign  job?"  I  chal- 
lenge the  city  editor. 


[33] DEADLINES 

He  emits  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  makes  indirect 
reply : 

"If  they  find  you  can  do  a  desk  job,  then  that's 
what  you  do !" 

"How  about  Josslyn?"  I  pursue. 

"Ah,  Josslyn !"  murmurs  Barlow. 

" Josslyn  V*  echoes  the  city  editor,  as  though  the 
name  had  a  mysterious  background.  "That  was 
an  exception.  Yes,  that  was  a  rare  case.  And  look 
how  it  ended.  You  know  the  story,  H.  J.  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  own. 

"I'd  like  to  hear  it,"  ventures  the  Cub,  edging 
closer. 

"No,"  says  the  city  editor,  emphatically.  "Not 
now ;  not  here."  He  glances  at  his  watch,  uncrosses 
his  legs,  and  brushes  ashes  from  his  knees.  It  is 
apparent  that  not  only  the  printers,  but  others, 
are  listening  to  our  jawing.  The  dice-game  has 
languished.  Shall  the  story  of  poor  Josslyn  be 
thus  published  to  the  world.  Our  delicacy  says 
no. 

Thus  we  are  about  to  lift  our  seance.  But  sud- 
denly there  is  a  commotion  at  the  door,  the  usual 
blast  of  cold  air,  a  subtle  animation  in  the  air,  and 
there  appears  a  gallant  figure  in  a  tan  cameFs- 
hair  overcoat.  He  carries  a  heavy,  crook-necked 
cane,  and  his  grey  hat  is  tipped  fetchingly  over 
one  eye.  On  the  way  to  us  he  delivers  a  separate 
greeting  to  each  of  the  elderly  printers.  He  taps 
Barlow  on  the  knee  with  his  cane,  winks  at  the 


DEADLINES nn 

Gub,  and  brings  up  before  the  city  editor  with: 
"Hello,  boss!" 

It  is  the  Star,  come  to  cheer  us. 

It  is  our  radiant  Best  Writer,  who  travels  daz- 
zlingly  an  orbit  we  cannot  follow,  who  gives  us 
hope  of  what  we  may  become  or  cheats  us  with 
thoughts  of  what  we  might  have  been.  Delightful 
fellow.    Exasperating  fellow! 

The  cigar  dealer  hails  him  with:  "Shake  you 
one  flop,  Larry ;  two  or  nothing."  The  loungers  at 
the  counter  fall  aside. 

"Not  now,"  replies  the  Star  absently.  We  make 
room  for  him  on  the  bench. 

[V] 

WHATS  new?"  is  asked. 
Finished  my  play.    Wrote  the  whole  last 
act  last  night."    He  taps  his  toes  carelessly  with 
the  cane. 

"Sent  it  away  yet?" 

"No.  Got  telegram  from  Barrymore,  though. 
Interested  as  hell.  Wired  him  back:  'Send  four 
hundred  expense  to  New  York.*  I  think  he'll  come 
through.  If  he  doesn't,  I — say,  boss,"  at  a  sudden 
thought,  "Fm  garnisheed  again." 

No  agitation  at  this  announcement.  The  Star 
goes  on,  to  a  full  audience  of  printers  and  wagon- 
drivers:  "He  hasn't  a  chance  to  collect.  Beastly 
little  tailor  on  Market  street.  It's  that  bill  I 
refused  to  pay  a  year  ago.    You  remember  the 


[35] DEADLINES 

suit ;  blue  thing  a  dead  cat  wouldn't  wear.  Gen- 
tlemen, I  could  not  wear  the  suit !  A  church  deacon 
wouldn't  go  to  his  own  funeral  in  it.  A  convict 
wouldn't  be  turned  loose  in  it  ...  .  Well,  boss, 
what  dor 

"See  the  Old  Man,"  says  the  city  editor,  lacon- 
ically. 

"Thought  maybe  you'd  stand  me  a  small  loan." 

"No." 

"No?"  The  Star's  smile  is  undiminished.  "Very 
well,  gentlemen,  let  us  talk  of  other  matters.  Of 
love,  say,  or  war,  or  literature.  Or  facing  life. 
Let  us  fling  up  our  brows,  and  say  with  Kipling 
(he  beats  time  with  his  cane)  : 

**My    head  ....  bloody,    but   unbowed  .... 

"Er — how  does  it  go ? 

*'I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul  .  .  .  ." 

"Henley,  not  Kipling,"  comments  Barlow. 

"As  you  will,"  nods  the  Star.  "Or  Childe 
Harold " 

"Roland,  you  mean." 

"Roland,  naturally.    I  quote: 

"  *The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  prey  at  bay  .... 

"Let's  see,  it  goes  on : 

"  *Now  stab  and  end  the  fool  .  .  .  .' 

"Anyway,  it  ends: 

'I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.    And  yet 
Dauntless  the  horn  to  my  fair  lips  I  set, 
And  blew:  Childe  Harold  to  the  dark  tower 
came.* " 

"Roland,  you  idiot." 


DEADLINES ^aej 

"Of  course.  NHmporte.  The  theory  is  the  same." 
A  pause.  The  drivers  and  printers  have  listened 
quizzically,  yet  with  tolerance  for  any  freakish 
outbreak  of  the  editors.   The  Star  produces  a  pipe, 
hangs  it  in  his  mouth  upside  down,  and  remarks: 
"That  was  a  swell  suicide  story  today." 
Another  pause.    The  Cub,  humbly: 
"Have  you  written  your  story  for  tomorrow, 
Mr.  Larrabee?" 

The  Star  turns  his  mocking  gaze  toward  the 
youngster. 

"Who  spoke?  It  was  my  conscience,  perhaps. 
My  conscience,  speaking  through  this  genteel  soph- 
omore ....  Sir,  I  have  not  written  my  story  for 
tomorrow.  I  shall  write  it  when  I  get  good  and 
ready."  He  means  this  shot  for  the  city  editor, 
who  remains  stolid.  "I  abhor  writing.  I  can't 
conceive  why  any  two-legged  being  adopts  writing 
as  an  occupation.  Putting  words  on  paper.  Ugh !" 
The  tirade  continues  uninterrupted. 
"In  the  last  four  months  I  have  written  three 
hundred  thousand  words  for  this  blackguardly 
sheet ;  three  complete  novels,  but  witli  nothing  to 
show  for  it.  Nothing  but  a  pile  of  letters,  mostly 
kicks.  Women  say  to  me:  Tt  must  be  so  intur- 
resting,  writing  for  the  papers.'  God !  I  made  a 
speech  to  a  woman's  club.  I  said:  'Literature  is 
all  slop.  Your  favorite  authors  are  a  bunch  of 
fakers.  I  am  an  idiot.  You  are  all  idiots,  or  you 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.'    There  was  no  applause.    I 


[371       DEADLINES 


said  what  I  thought  and  there  was  no  applause. 
N'importe,  I  continue,  nevertheless,  to  say  what 
I  think " 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  scoffs  the  city  editor. 
"You  couldn't  live  without  writing." 

"Or  applause,"  from  Barlow. 

The  Star  grins.  His  grin  fades  by  degrees ;  his 
face  becomes  plaintive. 

"I  need  money,"  he  says.  "Heaps  of  money.  I 
earn  hundreds,  but  I  must  have  thousands.  I  owe 
....  really,  I  can't  remember.  Everybody  is  on 
my  notes;  everybody.  Garnisheed  again!  .  .  . 
What  will  the  Old  Man  say,  do  you  think?" 

"He'll  say,  'This  must  be  the  last  time.'  " 

The  Star  sits  up  straight. 

"That  reminds  me.    Murray's  in  town." 

This  is  news  of  real  importance.  The  city  editor 
looks  uneasy. 

"Are  you  sure?    It  couldn't  have  been." 

"Think  I  could  be  wrong?"  he  scowls.  "I  saw 
him  over  at  Chillson's." 

We  glance  at  each  other.  There  is  an  odd  por- 
tent in  the  name  of  Murray.  Dropping  my  voice, 
I  ask:   "Sober?" 

The  Star  shrugs. 

"He'll  be  back,"  Barlow  chuckles.  He  mocks: 
"  I'm  on  the  wagon  now,  Mr.  Thain,  for  good.'  " 

The  city  editor  makes  to  speak,  but  remains 
silent.  Everybody  is  silent.  The  rumble  from  the 
press-room  is  like  a  surging  of  surf.  The  dice-game 


DEADLINES t^sj 

has  been  resumed,  "Click-click."  A  great  truck 
swaggers  out  from  the  alley,  piled  to  the  roof  with 
bundles  of  the  home  edition.  We  should  return  to 
the  office  at  once.  But  we  linger  on,  with  our 
cigar-ends  white  with  ash.  Our  thoughts  busy 
themselves,  now  with  Murray,  now  with  Josslyn, 
now  with  ourselves. 

It  is  a  muddle,  indeed,  this  life  of  ours.  We  are, 
as  we  have  said,  disappointed  with  our  lot.  Those 
of  us  who  should  have  been  writers  are  now  "desk- 
men,"  and  those  who  write  call  writing  bosh.  Yet 
is  this  true !  Perhaps,  after  all,  we  are  in  the  right 
berths;  and  somehow,  certainly,  we  are  all  con- 
tributing to  the  momentum  of  a  vast  institution, 
faulty  but  tremendous.  The  mass-consciousness ; 
that  is  what  saves  us.  I  do  not  dare  use  this  word 
in  the  Star's  hearing. 

[VI] 
TJARLOW,  however,  is  saying: 
-■-^    "Think  how  we  crawl  down  here  every  day 
before  daylight.    Think  of  the  unspeakable  alarm- 
clock.    Oh,  Lord,  the  alarm  clock." 

"Think  of  the  next  edition,"  says  the  city  editor. 
"1*11  bet  we're  ten  columns  overset  this  minute." 

"Think  of  my  debts,"  sighs  the  Star. 

"Think  how  we  might  be  lunching  at  the  club 
and  golfing  all  afternoon,"  says  the  city  editor, 
returning  to  his  original  grievance. 

"And  think  how  they  leave  my  stuff  out  all  the 
time,"  comes  from  the  Cub. 


t39] DEADLINES 

But  no  one  hears  him.  Into  this  doleful  reverie 
of  ours,  into  the  chorus  of  our  pessimism  (which 
is  quite  unreal)  and  our  gossip  of  Josslyn  and 
Murray  (our  zest  in  which  is  very  real)  there 
comes  a  message.  We  can  almost  hear  it  approach- 
ing. Indeed,  we  prick  up  our  ears  somehow;  we 
hold  ourselves  rigid,  ready  to  spring  in  response 
to  this  unknown  summons. 

Sure  enough,  a  boy  with  a  huge  head  and  a 
freckled  grin  appears  at  the  door.  He  is  hatless. 
In  his  hand  he  carelessly  holds  a  piece  of  copy- 
paper,  with  some  words  scrawled  on  it. 

He  peers  in,  then  fumbles  at  the  latch. 

The  city  editor  has  already  arisen.  He  receives 
the  note  through  the  door;  reads:  "Four-eleven 
fire  rung  in  from  Gloria  theater.    Extra?" 

We  read  over  his  shoulder.  A  sort  of  wine  pours 
into  our  veins.  Together,  three  abreast,  we  race 
away,  leaving  behind  the  Star  tapping  his  toes 
with  his  cane.  A  cry  of  "Shut  the  door!"  follows  us 
as  we  flee  from  the  mournful  voices  of  the  Cave  of 
Tongues,  flee  from  our  doubts  and  our  troubles, 
and  rush  joyously  toward  the  work  we  were  meant 
to  do. 


[41] 


DEADLINES 


[HI] 
The  Star 


[I] 


I  jji  HIS  way,  if  you  please.  Come  right 

^      W     ^      through   this   aisle   between   the 

I  desks.    Look  out  for  that  *phone 

I  cord.    Rather  dark  here.    Over  in 

B  this  corner  is  the  place.    Have  a 

==Jl  seat.    Well,  now  you  are  sitting  in 

the  Star's  own  chair.    You  find  the  bottom  pretty 

hard?     Well,  the  Star  doesn't  mind  that.     He 

doesn't  sit  in  his  chair  very  much. 

This  is  his  desk.  Perfectly  plain,  like  all  the 
others ;  battered  old  thing  with  a  typewriter  in  it 
that's  always  threatening  to  slip  its  fastenings. 
Not  a  roll-top,  of  course ;  no  pigeonholes ;  nothing 
but  those  drawers,  in  which  (unlocked)  the  Star 
keeps  his  secrets.  Observe  this  litter  on  top  of 
the  desk.  Faugh!  These  papers  are  dusty.  He 
never  throws  anything  away;  just  shoves  the 
litter  back  and  lets  it  lie.  A  lot  of  good  ideas  are 
penciled  on  some  of  those  papers,  and  a  lot  of 
foolish  ones  mixed  up  with  the  good  ones.  Let 
'em  lie. 


DEADLINES H^ 

The  old-fashioned  desk-light  hooded  in  a  piece 
of  copy  paper  is  one  of  his  hobbies.  Without  that 
paper  it  would  blind  his  eyes.  The  paper  is  always 
falling  off.  Nuisance.  But  when  the  Old  Man 
came  by  one  day  and  growled,  "Need  a  new  desk- 
light,  don't  you"  he  only  got  the  reply:  "What 
for?    What's  use  bothering?" 

On  the  paper  is  scrawled  a  notice : 

"Light-fingered  fiend  in  human  form  who  took 
my  'Philosophy  of  Love,*  by  Reimy  de  Gourmont: 
Return  or  take  consequences." 

Look  at  the  wall  alongside  the  desk.  He  writes 
things  on  the  wall;  memoranda,  scraps  of  verse, 
ideas.  And,  you  see,  he's  pasted  up  a  few  pictures. 
These  futurist  things  out  of  the  Dial  are  probably 
his  favorites.  As  for  this  poster  advertising  a 
Griffith  movie,  I  suppose  he  put  it  up  as  a  joke  on 
himself,  a  piece  of  irony.  That  newspaper  half- 
tone— fellow  smoking  a  pipe — is  a  picture  of  his 
best  friend. 

Of  course  everything's  covered  with  soot  and 
smeared  up  with  pencil-marks  and  the  light  here 
is  vile.  God  knows  why  he  likes  this  corner  so 
well,  but  it's  certain  that  if  we  gave  him  a  place 
by  a  window,  or  a  nice  private  room  with  a  shiny 
desk  and  a  push-button,  he'd  get  peevish  and 
wouldn't  write.  He  likes  it  here  in  the  alcove.  He 
likes  this  old,  smeary  news-room,  with  its  cracked 
plastering  and  its  quaint  shadows;  and  he  likes 
the  noises  from  outdoors  when  the  room  is  quiet. 


[431 DEADLINES 

the  hoots  and  shrieks  and  crashes;  and  he  likes 
the  city,  so  romantically  woven  of  the  crude  and 
the  elegant,  the  horrible  and  the  lovely  .... 

But  I  mustn't  get  into  that  vein  ....  Watch 
out !  Oh,  it's  only  the  Star's  pet  mouse  that  lives 
in  his  desk.  ,  ^ 

[II] 

PERHAPS  it  would  be  as  well  to  stop  calling 
him  the  Star — a  sobriquet  which  he  loathes — 
and  introduce  him,  though  absent,  by  his  name, 
which  is  Philo  Austin  Larrabee.  He  won't  stand 
for  the  Philo,  and  the  office  somehow  balks  at  the 
Larrabee,  so  the  office  generally  calls  him  Larry. 
He  signs  himself,  on  his  stories,  as  Austin 
Larrabee. 

Names  seldom  call  up  a  true  picture  of  a  man. 
I  suspect  that  this  one  suggests  a  matinee-idol 
sort  of  fellow,  with  spats  and  hair  slicked  down; 
or  a  parlor  poet  with  horn  spectacles,  clothed  in 
meekness.  Larry's  name  is  no  more  harmonious 
with  him  than  is  his  desk.  The  desk  and  its  envi- 
ronment make  you  imagine  a  seedy,  alpaca-coat 
type  of  genius,  with  pockets  stuffed  full  of  manu- 
scripts, smoking  a  corn-cob,  don't  they  ?  But  Larry 
is  so  little  like  either  the  horn  spectacles  or  the 
alpaca  coat  that  he  would  surprise  you.  I'll  shut 
my  eyes  and  get  him  vividly  in  mind,  and  then 
describe  him. 

Let's  see.  It  wouldn't  tell  you  much  to  say  that 
his  hair  is  brown,  his  height  medium,  and  so  on. 


DEADLINES luj 

I  believe  his  hair  is  brown;  at  least,  I  have  an 
impression  of  a  dark  overgrowth,  sometimes 
furiously  tangled,  sometimes  neatly  clipped  and 
brushed.  He  doesn't  look  the  same  way  all  the 
time.  It  seems  as  though  his  personal  appearance 
is  a  matter  of  chance.  There  are  days  when  his 
oval  face  is  a  peaceful  pink,  as  though  from 
massage,  and  then  it  may  be  sallow,  haggard,  and 
savage.  His  eyes  don't  change,  however.  They 
glint  the  same  blue,  and  the  brows  over-arch  them 
with  the  same  fine,  half -oriental  lines,  on  all  days. 
Intelligence,  humor,  disdain,  are  uttered  by  his 
eyes ;  and  there  comes  into  them,  rarely,  a  furious 
glow.  It  comes  only  when  he  works.  He  is  most 
natural  when  braced  before  that  typewriter,  with 
one  of  his  long  legs  drawn  up  under  him,  and  the 
other  stretched  straight  out,  with  the  Keel  of  his 
brightly-polished  shoe  grinding  into  the  floor.  He 
makes  quick  dabs,  between  sentences,  at  the  hair 
over  his  left  ear.  Actually  I  believe  he  has  worn 
a  bare  spot  there  with  his  slender  fingers,  upon 
one  of  which  he  wears  a  worthless  ring.  Often  he 
looks  up,  with  a  curious,  belligerent  stare,  at  any- 
one who  may  be  passing. 

Just  as  his  face  wears  different  aspects,  his 
costume  undergoes  the  most  freakish  of  changes. 
He  has  days  when  he  shambles  in  with  shameful 
trousers  and  a  cap  fit  for  a  safe  blower ;  and  there 
are  others  when  he  arrays  himself  in  fine  linen 
and  rich  blue,  and  flaunts  his  cameFs-hair  over- 


[45]        DEADLINES 

coat  and  twirls  a  cane.  There  is  utterly  no  premed- 
itation about  his  clothes.  He  would  just  as  soon  as 
not  wear  a  sweater  and  an  old  raincoat  to  a 
luncheon  at  the  Hotel  Splendo-Majestic,  or  parade 
Little  Hell  in  afternoon  dress.  Clearly,  he  spends 
much  money  on  apparel,  for  he  is  constantly  sur- 
prising us  with  hitherto,  unobserved  suits  and 
overcoats  and  hats ;  and  indeed  he  naively  tells  us 
whenever  he  thus  invests,  and  adds  that  he  has 
done  it  on  the  principle  of  "part  down."  His 
plumage  is  as  varied  as  that  of  a  prima  donna. 
It  would  be  useless  for  me,  in  describing  him  to 
you,  to  say  "he  wears  this"  or  "he  wears  that." 
Except  in  summer.  Then  he  demurely  wears 
white,  and  his  only  gauds  are  his  ties,  which  are 
a  fantasy  in  color  and  color  combinations,  reveal- 
ing more  than  anything  else  the  earnestness  of 
his  search  for  something  novel.  Well,  of  course, 
there  are  also  his  shirts.  Very  exotic,  naturally. 
In  summer  he  often  leaves  his  white  linen  coat 
hanging  over  his  chair  and  strolls  about  the  office, 
or  even  through  the  streets,  displaying  stripes 
like  unto  an  awning. 

On  the  days  when  his  face  has  that  pink  look 
his  walk  is  elastic,  blithe,  triumphant;  on  the 
sallow  and  haggard  days  he  slumps  between  the 
door  and  his  desk  with  never  a  wink  of  gayety. 
There  are  also  intermediate  states,  grave  and 
taciturn  days,  when  he  moves  slowly  at  a  com- 
monplace stride,  without  interest.    Perhaps  those 


DEADLINES tiy 

days  are  the  worst,  when  he  is  neither  elated  by 
the  discovery  of  a  new  costume-effect  nor  deli- 
ciously  sunken  in  gloom;  those  days  when  he  is 
apparently  an  ordinary  being,  with  duties,  body- 
functions,  and  bills  to  pay,  and  perhaps  not  a  Star 
at  all. 

At  all  times,  at  his  very  worst,  an  incalculable, 
fascinating,  graceful  being,  a  delicately-hung 
organism,  just  a  bit  off  balance;  a  boy  with  singu- 
lar traces  of  age.  Delacroix  would  have  painted 
him  with  a  half-starved  look  and  his  deepest 
frown,  and  his  finely-modeled,  half -sneering  nose 
sharp  against  a  dark  background.  I  paint  him 
for  you,  quivering  and  tousle-headed,  against  that 
smudged  window-pane  there,  pouring  his  genius 
into  a  typewriter.  One  of  us.  A  comrade  .... 
But  I  mustn't  drop  into  that  vein.  What  time  is  it  ? 

[Ill] 

YOU  ask:  Who  is  he,  after  all?  What  does  he 
"do  on  the  paper?" 
Well,  he  is  a  reporter;  nothing  but  a  reporter. 
He  goes  out  and  sees  things  happen  and  hears 
people  talk;  then  he  comes  in  and  writes  about 
them.  We  have  twenty  others  who  do  that  and 
do  it  very  well.  So  what  is  it  that  makes  Larry 
a  star?  Mark  this,  my  friend:  He  is  not  a  star 
because  he  pursues  desperate  criminals  in  an 
airplane,  or  because  single-handed  he  extorts 
confessions  from  political  grafters,  or  on  account 


t47] DEADLINES 

of  this  or  that  spectacular  folly  of  reporting  such 
as  the  cinema  clownishly  flashes.  If  we  have  to 
send  somebody  to  ride  in  a  locomotive  cab,  we  send 
one  of  the  "ordinary"  men ;  one  of  the  rough-and- 
tumble  sort  whose  skins  aren*t  worth  much,  and 
who  can't  write  a  lick. 

Larry  is  a  star  because  .he  emits  rays  of  light. 
I  mean — I  mean  his  nature  is  a  lens  from  which 
the  drab  colors  of  this  earth  are  reflected  in  hues 
that  fascinate  one,  confound  one,  and  are  yet  real. 
He  never  sees  things  as  anyone  else  sees  them ;  we 
gave  up  long  ago  trying  to  make  him  do  so.  It 
is  simply  impossible  for  him  to  interpret  life  from 
the  viewpoint  of  the  trite  and  self-satisfied  mul- 
titude. He  cannot,  to  save  him,  lead  up  to  a 
conclusion  that  "all's  right  with  the  world,"  that 
"to  the  brave  belong  the  fair,"  or  "boost,  and  the 
world  boosts  with  you."  As  for  actually  uttering 
such  a  sentiment,  he  would  commit  murder  first. 
He  is  death  on  pretenders,  hypocrites,  and  opti- 
mists. He  punctures  their  toy  balloons  by  mere 
statements  of  fact,  shorn  of  comment,  but  barbed 
by  the  peculiar  keenness  of  his  words.  His  style 
is  very  direct.  Larry  has  discarded  more  cir- 
cumlocutions, more  "literary  phrases,"  than  the 
average  doctor  of  philosophy  has  learned.  I  sus- 
pect that  he  has  spent  long,  smoky  hours  inventing 
escapes  from  the  academic.  I  know  that  he  has 
prowled  the  streets  day  and  night  searching, 
searching  for  the  words  that  would  express  the 


DEADLINES ysj 

buildings,  the  people,  the  noises,  the  odors.  Little 
words ;  little,  torch-like  words.  Those  are  what  he 
wants,  and  what  he  uses.  Therefore,  what  Larry 
writes  is  very  easy  to  read ;  but  not  naive.  Oh,  no ! 
That  complexity  of  his,  that  odd  refracting  quality 
that  I  mentioned,  makes  a  composition  by  Austin 
Larrabee  something  peculiar  in  its  effect,  disturb- 
ing, prismatic. 

The  city  editor.  Brown,  found  it  so  disturbing 
that  after  Larry  had  worked  on  the  paper  a  year 
he  went  to  the  Old  Man  about  it.  And  the  Old 
Man  said :  "Either  fire  him,  or  stop  sending  him 
out  on  routine  assignments."  So  the  city  editor 
told  Larry  to  report  what  he  liked,  and  write  what 
he  liked. 

There  have  been  precedents  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  even  in  our  office;  but  it  hasn't  always 
worked  out  as  it  did  with  Larry.  A  normal  human 
being,  given  complete  freedom,  is  apt  to  waste  it, 
get  lazy,  frazzle  out.  Not  so  our  friend  who  occu- 
pies this  corner.!  The  new  order  had  an  unforeseen 
effect  upon  hitrT  Brown  says  he  started  back  as 
though  he  had  been  struck,  and  then  snapped  out : 

"Want  to  put  it  all  onto  me,  eh?    All  right!" 

This  fit  lasted  an  hour,  and  then  he  strolled  back 
to  Brown's  desk,  and  with  one  of  his  most  fasci- 
nating and  affectionate  smiles  he  said:  "Say,  I 
believe  I  can  write  some  good  stories  for  you,  old 
boy."  He  was  all  flushed  up,  and  he  had  dabbed 
at  his  forelock  until  it  hung  in  strings.    Without 


t49] DEADLINES 

waiting  for  Brown's  response,  he  dashed  back  to 
his  typewriter  and  in  a  few  minutes  it  began  to 
clatter  like  a  drill. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  an  arrangement 
whose  fruits  have  astonished  us  all,  have  aston- 
ished the  city  itself.  The  city  never  knew  it  was 
like  Larry's  pictures  of  it.  The  city  fancied  itself 
busy,  or  noisy,  or  prosperous,  or  admirable,  or 
monotonous ;  it  never  knew  it  was  complex,  impul- 
sive, romantic — gorgeously  romantic.  It  thought 
its  buildings  were  handsome;  it  did  not  realize 
they  were  beautiful,  beautiful  with  a  stunningly 
futurist  design.  It  thought  its  people  were  "inter- 
esting," but  it  never  delved  into  the  million 
variations  of  type  brought  here  by  the  People  of 
Fifty  Lands.  The  city  laughed  at  hundreds  of 
"freaks,"  it  vaguely  pitied  thousands  of  unfortu- 
nates, it  flung  dimes  to  innumerable  beggars,  it 
dreamed  about  scores  of  younger  lovers,  it  revered 
many  a  millionaire,  it  shrank  from  jails  full  of 
criminals — but  it  never  realized  any  of  them.  Not 
until  Larry  was  "turned  loose." 

Larry  can  interpret  the  city  because  he  loves  it. 
He  doesn't  want  to  write  about  anything  else. 
Say  Paris  or  New  York  to  him,  and  get  a  sneer 
for  your  pains.  He  has  found  the  city  big  enough 
for  him,  and  feverish  enough,  and  beautiful 
enough;  he  has  not  nearly  exhausted  it;  he  has 
only  just  started.  And  the  more  he  plunges  into 
its  jungle  and  fishes  in  its  cesspools  for  the  rare 


DEADLINES [50] 

deposits  of  human  treasure  that  make  up  his 
"stories,"  the  more  unending  seems  his  search. 
Let  it  go  on.  For  God's  sake,  let  it  go  on.  I  do 
hope  Larry  won't  get  morose,  and  quit.  But  I 
mustn't  be  led  into  that  vein.  Who's  coming  in? 

[IV] 

T'M  glad  it's  not  Larry,  for  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
*     what  kind  of  a  fellow  he  is. 

Well,  he's  the  kind  of  fellow  who  appears  to 
have  out-grown,  or  cast  aside,  practically  all  the 
known  precepts  for  normal  living,  and  doesn't  give 
a  copper  for  anybody  or  anything. 

Larry  declares  that  he  doesn't  believe  in  religion 
or  even  in  ethics.  He  takes  pleasure  in  repudiating 
most  of  the  ten  commandments,  the  Golden  rule, 
and  a  large  part  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  He 
uses  up  the  time  of  somebody  nearly  every  day 
rejecting  honor  in  the  abstract,  loyalty  in  the 
rough,  and  such  things.  Most  heartily  he  scoffs  at 
success.  ,He  does  not  demean  himself  to  ridicule 
such  things  as  riches  or  fashion,  but  he  does  talk 
venomously  about  success,  and  not  enviously, 
either.  It  is  an  inflammatory  subject  for  him  that 
some  people  attain  what  they  want,  or  at  least 
think  that  they  have  attained  it.  Perhaps  it  only 
maddens  him  because  they  think  they  are  content, 
whereas  he  insists  that  nobody  is  content.  Him- 
self least  of  all.  If  he  were  to  come  in  here  just 
now,  and  you  should  say  that  he  looks  happy,  you 


fsi]    ^ DEADLINES 


would  get  a  tongue-lashing  in  Larry's  best  style, 
which  would  include  some  words  you  hadn't  heard 
before. 

This  young  man  strolls  through  the  world  with 
a  queerly  bitter  greeting  for  it,  yet  with  an  engag- 
ing smile.  He  asserts  he  hates  the  world,  hates 
the  human  race,  spurns  its  .contrivances  for  being 
peaceable  and  joyous,  and  has  no  hope  of  it. 

He  says  he  does  not  believe  in  marriage  or  in 
honesty.  But  he  is  married  and  lives  true  to  his 
wife.  And  he  never  stole  anything. 

Honor?  Why,  he  wouldn't  go  back  on  a  friend 
for— for  all  that  he  owes.  Loyalty?  Well,  I  can 
only  judge  of  that  by  the  way  he  clings  to  us,  and 
the  way  he  works.  He  adores  Brown,  who  gave 
him  his  big  chance.  He  would  drag  himself  out 
of  a  hospital  on  one  leg  if  he  thought  Brown 
needed  him.  When  he  has  his  little  illnesses  he 
scrawls  notes  to  Brown,  in  a  big  school-boy  hand, 
saying,  "Don't  worry.  I'm  sending  down  a  story 
by  messenger."  He  is  loyal  to  us,  and  he  is  loyal 
to  Mrs.  Larry.  Of  course  you  understand  that  he 
is  rather  run  after  by  foolish  women,  literature- 
mad  girls  who  want  to  learn  his  secret  of  writing, 
and  others  who  are  plain  crazy.  But  just  let  Mrs. 
Larry  come  in  sight,  and  he  shakes  off  the  insects 
in  petticoats  and  waves  them  good-bye.  For  their 
pains  they  can  see  Larry  escorting  her  down  the 
street,  twirling  his  cane  and  plainly  an  affection- 
ate husband. 


DEADLINES t^2i 

It's  bosh  that  he  hates  the  human  race.  Or 
perhaps  he  does  hate  the  race  as  such.  Lots  of 
brainy  men  have  indulged  in  that  large  and  harm- 
less habit  of  hating  the  species,  of  denouncing  its 
general  attributes,  its  frailties,  its  inconsistencies, 
and  so  on.  Lots  of  men  who  have  a  terrible  vigor 
and  a  divine  irritability  bottled  up  in  them  let 
drive  at  people  in  general  so  as  to  avoid  hurting 
people  in  particular.  For  individuals,  whether 
encountered  in  small  groups  or  large,  these  same 
men  have  a  half -pitying  geniality  that  frequently 
concentrates  into  acts  of  kindness.  Look  at  Mark 
Twain.  Look  at  Bob  Ingersoll.  And  now  look  at 
Larry.  He  shouts  that  he  despises  mankind,  but 
in  all  his  contacts  with  mankind  he  is  gentle, 
amiable,  brotherly.  Ah,  he  absolutely  rejoices  in 
scraping  elbows  with  people.  See  him  in  a  crowd, 
content  with  his  absorption  in  the  feeling  of  being 
among  people.  See  him  enter  a  room;  how  his 
face  lights  up;  how  everybody's  face  lights  up! 
Maybe  he  hates  humanity,  but  he  is  himself 
human. 

[V] 

I  OUGHTN'T  to  have  got  into  that  vein.     It 
would  be  certain  death  if  Larry  were  to  over- 
hear me.   .   .   . 

Who's  that  mooning  about  by  the  front  window, 
watching  the  city  put  on  its  paste  diamonds  for 
the  evening?  It's  Larry,  isn't  it?  No,  it's 
Murray.    It's  only  our  drunkard. 


[53] DEADLINES 

There  is  an  affinity  between  the  Star  and  the 
drunkard.  Larry  pretends  that  he  is  interested 
in  poor  Chick  only  as  a  pathological  case :  studies 
his  retrogression,  and  all  that.  Again  his  pose. 
Once  when  they  were  police  reporters  together — 
but  Josslyn  tells  that  story  better  than  I  do.  I 
was  only  going  to  cite  it  to.  prove  that  Larry  has 
in  him  that  deftly  guarded  quality  of  compassion 
that  is  in  all  us  newspaper  people  more  or  less, 
and  that  either  makes  great  men  of  us — or  breaks 
us.  He  does  more  for  poor  Chick  than  any  of  us 
do,  unless  it  is  Josslyn.  Still,  there  may  be  a 
fascination  for  Larry  in  observing  the  tortuous 
ways  of  our  stumbling  Murray.  His  own  mind 
is  tortuous ;  his  processes,  too,  a  trifle  pathological. 
So  thin  is  the  film  that  divides  genius  from  its 
most  terrible  caricature. 

Where's  Chick  going?    See  him  grope. 

I  don't  suppose  he's  going  anywhere,  really. 

Perhaps  Larry  isn't,  either. 


[55] 


DEADLINES 


[IV] 
The  Drunkard 


[I] 


U  R  R  A  Y  '  S  case  started  before 
prohibition,  and  continued  after 
prohibition.  So  far  as  Murray  is 
concerned,  there  is  no  prohibition. 
It  started  years  ago,  and  hasn't 
stopped.  There  seems  to  be  no 
end  to  it.  Every  now  and  then  the  Old  Man 
explodes,  rolls  his  eyes  terribly,  and  says  there 
must  be  an  end.  Everybody  responds,  "Yes,  that's 
right ;  it  must  be  the  last  time."  But,  one  by  one, 
everybody  weakens,  and  here  is  Murray  back  on 
the  staff. 

We  are  ashamed  of  ourselves.  We  are  stupen- 
dously bored.  The  whole  thing  is  an  ungodly 
nuisance.  Worse  than  that,  it  is  a  blow  to  our 
morale,  it  is  a  frightful  example  to  the  "younger 
men,"  it  has  no  excuse  even  in  the  name  of 
humanity.  Its  last  shred  of  justification  as  a 
humane  thing  vanished  months  ago.  There  is  no 
reason  anywhere;  nothing,  not  the  least  hypo- 


y^ 


DEADLINES ^ ^sej 

critical,  disingenuous  atom  of  a  reason,  why  we 
should  have  Murray  back  on  the  staff.  But  here 
he  is. 

Sometimes  months  pass  without  Murray.  He 
is  somewhere  else,  doing  heaven  knows  what.  He 
becomes  a  fiction,  a  legendary  person  who  once 
worked  here,  and  about  whom  cluster  amusing 
reminiscences.  Then  one  day  we  arrive  at  the 
office,  distributing  ourselves  to  our  various  desks 
and  duties,  and  behold!  there  is  a  familiar  sleek 
black  head  half  hidden  behind  a  morning  paper, 
a  well-known  pair  of  pointed  shoes  cocked  upon 
a  chair.  And  Murray's  half -sheepish,  half -defiant 
grin  greets  us. 

"Hello,  Chick." 

"Hello,  fellows." 

We  shake  our  heads  as  we  take  up  our  work. 
To  think  that  Murray  should  have  come  back! 
To  think  that  he  should  have  the  nerve  to  come 
back !  The  fact  is  both  entertaining  and  irksome ; 
and  it  goes  deeper.  It  is  a  symbol  of  the  cycle 
of  vanishing  and  returning  events  to  which  our 
lives  are  attached.  The  endless  activity  of  machin- 
ery, the  recurrence  of  the  same  incidents  both 
within  and  without  the  office,  the  performance  of 
the  same  work  in  the  same  way — it  is  with  things 
like  these  that  the  resuscitation  of  Murray  blends 
vaguely  but  pertinently.  This  makes  the  fact  of 
his  return  not  only  entertaining,  not  only  irksome, 
but  curiously  comforting. 


f57]     DEADLINES 


[II] 

a'  course  there  must  be  one  bad  boy  in  every 
large  family,  one  villain  in  every  cast.  And 
in  a  modernized  office,  where  personality  is  better 
poised  than  it  used  to  be,  there  has  to  be  at  least 
one  "throw-back." 

For  the  most  part  we  in  the  news-room  are 
regenerate.  We  are  men  of  family,  sober  men. 
Here  and  there  is  the  face  of  a  reformed  drunkard 
— a  face  sad  and  reminiscent.  It  would  be  unspeak- 
ably shocking  should  one  of  these  older  men, 
whose  career  in  liquor  lies  so  far  behind  as  to 
lose  even  the  value  of  anecdote,  come  in  some 
morning  and  break  the  furniture.  Why,  he  simply 
could  not  do  it!  The  completeness  with  which 
regeneration  has  captured  the  majority  of  us 
makes  the  utter  unregenerateness  of  Murray,  his 
debonair  and  unashamed  irresponsibility,  a  very 
piquant  thing  in  our  lives.  He  is  like  a  wine 
goblet  (time  of  Charles  II)  among  a  collection  of 
Mayflower  crockery.  He  is  a  story  of  old  times. 
He  reminds  the  older  men  of  their  youth. 

Whenever  Murray  comes  back,  Josslyn,  the 
grey-haired  copy-reader,  tells  once  more  about 
the  staff  as  it  was  when  he  was  first  city  editor. 
Even  the  Old  Man  is  known  to  unbend,  and  to 
relate  how  when  he  was  a  reporter.  .  .  .  Yes, 
sir,  newspaper  men  were  devils  in  those  days. 
Why,  when  there  was  to  be  a  hanging  every  man 
Jack  assigned  to  "cover"  it  used  to  get  drunk,  and 


DEADLINES [^j 

when  it  was  over  they  used  to  come  into  the  office 
roaring  "Danny  Deever."  And  say!  Do  you 
remember  the  First  Ward  Ball,  that  terrific  annual 
orgy  when  politicians,  crooks,  and  libertines  used 
to  keep  it  up  until  daylight,  and  reporters  had 
free  tickets.  The  day  after  the  First  Ward  Ball 
hardly  anybody  could  come  to  work.  (Chuckles.) 
Josslyn  digs  out  of  his  archives  some  crude 
verses,  written  on  such  a  day: 

The  morning  after  the  First  Ward  Ball 
Nary  a  reporter  reported  at  all. 
And  such  as  did  wore  a  doleful  smile, 
Nor  did  Josslyn's  glance  his  dander  rile. 

First  Fox  came  in  with  half -shut  eyes, 
Vowing  at  six  he  began  to  rise. 
He  "just  couldn't  help  the  train  blockade," 
And  for  the  Desk's  mercy  he  earnestly  prayed. 

Then  came  Jones  a  half  hour  later, 
Resembling,  we  thought,  a  half -drowned  satyr. 
"I  was  out  at  the  ball  pretty  late,"  he  said, 
Pressing  his  hands  to  the  side  of  his  head. 

But  poor  old  George  never  came  at  all — 
They  found  him  asleep  when  they  cleaned  the  hall. 
From  under  a  table  he  crawled  to  the  'phone 
And  rei-jrted  for  work  with  a  piteous  moan. 

The  First  Ward  Ball  is  no  more.  That  genera- 
tion is  no  more.  "Hinky  Dink"  Kenna's  place  is  a 
soft  drink  parlor.  The  stories  of  those  days  have 
a  flavor  like  the  anecdotes  of  the  California  gold 


[59] DEADLINES 

stampede.  There  remains  only  Murray,  who  is 
not  at  all  a  physical  relic  of  our  drunkard  age,  but 
a  sort  of  reincarnation,  mysteriously  alive  among 
us,  of  which  we  have  lost  the  secret. 

In  our  more  solemn  moments  we  realize  that 
he  is  a  terrible  figure.  This  reincarnation  is  some- 
thing that  should  never  have  been.  We  ask  each 
other  earnestly,  "Where  does  he  get  it?"  and 
when  we  ask  that  we  are  asking  a  whole  modern 
society  why,  if  it  really  was  determined  to  turn 
a  new  leaf,  it  did  not  turn  it  so  effectively  that 
even  Murray  could  be  "readjusted."  And  some- 
times—  usually  just  after  he  has  disappeared 
again  and  "left  us  flat" — we  bang  our  fists  down 
and  exclaim:  "What's  the  use  of  prohibition  if 
it  doesn't  prohibit?"  But  not  often  do  we  grow 
so  much  impassioned  about  anything.  We  have 
to  accept  Murray  with  all  his  implications;  we 
have  to  reconcile  ourselves,  day  upon  day,  to  the 
fact  that  nothing  grievous  is  ever  cured,  that 
this  plague  or  that  is  sure  to  return,  that  laws 
are  fifty  per  cent  failures,  and  that  we  spend  our 
lives  accommodating  ourselves  to  matters  that  are 
all  wrong  and  won't  grow  better.  So  we  balance 
ourselves  in  a  mood  of  half -humorous  pessimism, 
shrug  our  shoulders  at  irritations  and  grotes- 
queries,  make  epigrams  upon  our  woes  —  and 
welcome  Murray  back. 

"Hello.  Chick.    O.  K.  again,  eh?" 


f 


DEADLINES [mj 

"Hello,  fellows.  Yes,  Fm  on  the  wagon  now,  for 
good." 

He  is  tapping  out  on  his  typewriter  an  article 
for  the  next  edition.  There  is  an  abnormally  clean 
and  alert  look  about  him.  A  subdued  look,  too. 
He  has  had  a  hair-cut,  a  shave,  and  a  massage. 
The  flesh  of  his  face  is  fine-drawn,  pale,  refined 
by  the  suffering  that  has  attended  his  latest  spree, 
and  especially  by  the  awakening  from  it.  His 
trimly-built  figure  wears  a  new,  dark-brown  suit 
that  speaks  of  his  latest  Herculean  effort  to  con- 
vince the  world  that  this  is  a  new  Murray.  He 
writes  intensely,  careful  of  the  diction.  Yes,  it  is 
all  past.  Nothing  has  happened.  His  body  and 
soul  went  wandering  in  a  strange  spectral  land 
with  purple  trees  and  a  red  sky,  from  which 
flashed  eerie  lightnings,  and  now  they  have  come 
back,  the  same  body  and  soul,  and  dropped  with- 
out a  jolt  into  the  grey  world  of  the  normal, 
and  Murray  has  taken  up  silently  the  routine  of 
talking  and  writing.  He  even  writes  poetry.  He 
is  a  wonder! 

[HI] 

THEY  say  that  it  is  now  seven  times  that  he 
has  fallen,  and  has  "reformed." 
There  is  never  any  warning.  He  goes  on  looking 
just  like  that,  a  compact,  nicely-dressed  fellow 
writing  clean  English.  He  is  sent  out  on  an 
errand  of  some  importance,  perhaps.  Then — 
silence.    Blankness.    No  Murray.    A  typewriter 


[61] DEADLINES 

that  remains  hooded.  Letters  for  Murray  in  the 
mail  box.  "Where's  Murray  ?"  "Damn  it,  where's 
Murray  today?"  The  city  editor  slams  inoffensive 
papers  and  spindles  around  his  desk.  Then  he 
smiles  a  smile  that  the  men  have  seen  before.  Then 
he  gets  up  and  goes  into  the  Old  Man's  room. 

The  copy-readers  begin  to.  whisper  and  shrug. 
Same  old  scandal.  They  watch  Brown  curiously 
when  he  comes  out  of  the  Old  Man's  room.  Brown 
squares  his  elbows  to  his  work.  The  copy-readers 
can  reconstruct  his  conversation  with  the  Old 
Man,  even  without  a  clew  to  it. 

"Murray's  gone  again,  Mr.  Thain." 

"Well,  I  told  you  not  to  take  him  back.  Good 
God,  how  long  am  I  going  to  .  .   ." 

"But  you  remember  I  consulted  you,  and  you 
said  we  should  give  him  one  more  chance." 

"Don't  remember  such  a  conversation.  I've 
always  said  he  was  impossible.  I've  warned  you 
repeatedly  not  to  give  him  any  important  assign- 
ment. This  is  just  plain  stupidity  of  yours. 
Brown." 

(A  hard-breathing  silence  on  Brown's  part.) 

"Where  do  you  suppose  he  got  it?"  muses  the 
Old  Man. 

"Why,  you  know  he  can  get  it  anywhere.  He's 
so  popular  they  throw  it  at  him." 

(Silence  on  the  Old  Man's  part.) 

"Well   .   .   ." 

"Well  .   .   ." 


DEADLINES ^^ 

The  days  go  by,  and  nothing  is  heard  from 
Murray.  It  seems  impossible  that  anybody  could 
drop  so  completely  from  sight.  Inquiry  is  made 
at  his  home.  His  wife  has  gone  back  to  her 
parents  for  the  third  time.  Nobody  at  the  flat 
except  a  hovering  swarm  of  bill-collectors.  Mrs. 
Murray,  when  seen,  says  that  this  is  the  end. 
Her  mother  reinforces  the  verdict. 

Reporters  who  occasionally  visit  bootlegging 
haunts  tell  us  there  is  no  sign  of  Murray.  Actually 
it  seems  as  though  something  must  have  hap- 
pened to  him  this  time.  We  are  a  little  disturbed 
with  each  report  of  an  unidentified  body  in  the 
lake.  But  this  fear  is  laughed  down,  and  pure 
blankness  again  characterizes  the  case  of  Murray, 
except  for  those  piquant  anecdotes  of  "the  pre- 
vious incident."  The  story  he  went  out  to  get  has 
long  since  been  obtained  by  some  other  reporter, 
printed,  and  forgotten.  The  mystery  lasts  until 
his  reappearance,  which  is  also  a  mystery. 

Once  or  twice  it  has  varied  a  little.  On  one 
occasion  Murray  emerged  unaccountably  during 
his  headlong  dive  into  liquor,  called  up  the  Old 
Man  at  his  house  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  and 
asked  for  a  loan  of  ten  dollars.  The  Old  Man 
roared  at  him,  "I'll  loan  you  a  tub  of  ice,  you  booze- 
fighter!"  and  then  started  shouting  "Where  are 
you?  Where  are  you?"  But  in  the  meantime 
Murray  had  hung  up.  He  was  gone  for  six  weeks. 

One  other  day  of  lapse  he  came  into  the  office 


^Mjlilliy^ 


[631 DEADLINES 

late  in  the  afternoon  after  all  the  editions  had 
gone  and  someone  else  had  "done"  his  neglected 
story,  and  insisted  on  writing  the  story  himself. 
Brown  had  gone  home,  and  Josslyn  had  to  deal 
with  the  case.  He  refused  to  let  Murray  use  a 
typewriter,  so  Murray  went  to  the  office  of  a 
rival  paper,  and  asked  to  be  permitted  to  write 
a  story  for  us !  They  threw  him  out  of  that  office. 
He  went  to  a  second,  where  the  man  in  charge 
treated  the  matter  humorously,  led  Murray  to  a 
typewriter  and  even  loaned  him  a  messenger  boy 
to  bring  the  story  to  our  office  two  paragraphs 
at  a  time.    Josslyn  has  the  pieces  yet. 

The  morning  after  that  exploit  in  came  Chick 
and  upbraided  Brown  for  not  printing  his  article. 

"You're  fired,  Chick,"  said  Brown  quietly. 

"I — I  most  heartily  regret  to  hear  it,"  replied 
Murray,  balancing  himself  carefully.  He  then 
took  off  his  hat  to  the  city  editor's  office  boy,  and 
disappeared  for  a  month. 

During  two  of  his  disappearances,  as  we  have 
now  learned,  he  went  to  distant  cities  and  worked 
there.  First  it  was  San  Francisco,  then  it  was 
Philadelphia.  Each  time  he  was  a  faithful,  reliable 
employe — for  a  while.  He  wrote  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  Josslyn: 

"They  think  a  lot  of  me  here.  I've  got  a  strong 
tip  that  I'll  be  made  city  editor  in  a  few  months. 
Like  the  town  fine.  I  haven't  had  any  trouble 
about — you  know.  Would  you  mind  paying  a  debt 


'^^^: 


\ 


DEADLINES ^64^ 

or  two  with  this  money-order?  Larrabee  and 
Barlow,  $5  each.  Keep  out  your  own  five,  of 
course.    No,  I'm  never  coming  back." 

Within  two  weeks  he  appeared,  very  downcast. 
There  was  the  usual  secret  session  in  the  Old 
Man's  room,  and  the  usual  reinstatement. 

While  he  was  on  the  Philadelphia  paper  he  was 
sent  out  here  to  cover  a  railroad  "strike  crisis." 
He  was  very,  very  sure  of  himself.  That  day  he 
came  in,  shook  hands  all  around  with  much  dig- 
nity, and  told  us  he  was  going  to  "sign  his  stuff." 
To  Josslyn  he  confided  the  fact  that  he  and  his 
wife  were  reconciled,  and  that  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  a  flat  in  Philadelphia  he  was  going  to  send 
for  her.  He  left  breezily  to  attend  the  wage 
conference. 

In  the  afternoon  he  appeared  in  our  office  with 
his  hair  somewhat  ruffled,  and  the  satyr-like  smile 
that  often  put  us  on  our  guard.  He  leaned  against 
a  desk,  and  carefully  explained  that  he  had  some- 
how missed  the  conference;  asked  if  he  couldn't 
use  our  proofs  to  send  a  story  east.  Also  he 
pleaded  with  Barlow  in  whispers  for  quite  a 
while,  but  to  no  avail.  He  left  jauntily,  colliding 
with  the  Old  Man  in  the  hall,  and  saying,  "Beg 
pardon,  old  chap."  We  heard  nothing  more  of  him 
for  two  months.  Then  came  a  telegram  from  the 
Philadelphia  paper;  "Look  out  for  one  Chick  Mur- 
ray.   He  may  try  to  get  job  with  you.    He  drinks." 

It  was  after  this  that  we  made  our  most  Her- 


[65] DEADLINES 

culean  eifort  to  save  him.  We  collected  a  fund 
and  sent  him  to  the  "cure."  He  went  most 
humbly.  He  returned  "cured."  His  wife  herself 
brought  him  in,  showed  him  to  the  Old  Man,  and 
tearfully  thanked  that  august  person  for  all  he 
had  done.  Chick  cried,  too,  and  I  fancy  it  was  a 
near  thing  that  the  Old  Man  didn't  cry.  Murray 
was  given  his  most  formal  reinstatement  of  them 
all,  and  the  office  advanced  him  two  weeks*  salary 
to  pay  his  debts.  (I've  heard  that  the  Old  Man 
guaranteed  the  apartment  rent  for  three  months.) 
All  this  was  just  before  the  Volstead  act  took 
effect.  Of  course,  everybody  felt  that  if  Chick 
could  last  until  that  January  first  he  would  be 
safe.  And  he  did !  He  worked  quietly  and  effec- 
tively far  into  that  January,  and  the  boys  who 
had  bet  that  he  wouldn't  were  forced  to  pay. 

Then  Brown  had  a  brilliant  idea.  He  would 
send  Murray  out  on  an  assignment  to  discover 
whether  prohibition  was  being  enforced.  He  said 
to  him :  "Look  here,  you  know  where  all  the  joints 
are.  You  know  all  the  bartenders.  I  guess  you 
know  better  than  to  take  a  drink  yourself.  Here's 
some  expense  money.  That's  all." 
"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Murray. 
Two  days  later,  when  he  hadn't  returned,  some- 
one mildly  suggested  to  Brown  that  perhaps  he 
had  dangled  too  great  a  temptation  before  the 
reformed  drunkard,  even  during  a  prohibition 
regime.    Brown  angrily  replied :  "He'll  come  back, 


DEADLINES reej 

and  sober.  He's  cured,  ain't  he?  Don't  anybody 
preach  a  sermon  to  me.  That  fellow  knows  he 
can't  afford  to  break  faith  with  George  Brown." 

Three  days  more,  and  behold !  Murray  did  come 
back.  He  sat  down  on  Brown's  desk,  put  his  arm 
around  the  city  editor's  neck,  and  made  a  speech, 
substantially  as  follows  : 

"Brown,  you've  been — ^best  friend  I  had.  I 
think  you're  greatest  newspaper  man  in  the  world. 
Brown.  Thass  what  I  think.  When  all  else  fails, 
rely  on  good  ol'  Brown ;  thass  what  I  say.  Brown 
don't  ever  ask  a  feller,  'Where's  that  story,  or 
those  money' ;  does  he.  Brown  ?" 

"Where  is  that  story?"  demanded  Brown, 
throwing  off  Chick's  arm. 

Murray  pulled  out  some  silver,  laid  it  before  his 
chief  and  said,  "There."  He  added,  "Ac-kick- 
counting." 

Just  then  the  Old  Man  passed  through  the 
local  room  without  noticing  his  protege.  Murray 
craftily  gained  the  door  and  vanished. 

[IV] 

I  TELL  these  things  not  with  an  eye  to  humorous 
anecdote.  I  tell  them  only  to  illustrate  the 
plight  we  have  been  in.  We  have  been  kind  to  a 
fellow  worker,  we  have  dared  to  take  pity  upon 
one  who  is  outcast  by  every  standard  of  "honor- 
able action,"  and  we  have  been  paying  the  penalty. 
Why  should  we  be  cursed  by  Murray,  the  spector 
of  Liquor? 


[671 DEADLINES 

Well,  we  should  not  be  thus  cursed  did  we  not 
yield  to  this  passion  for  taking  Murray  back. 
And  so  why  have  we  yielded?  It  must  be  that 
there  lurks  in  us  a  reprehensible  secret  delight 
in  his  abandonment  to  habits  that  we  dare  not 
harbor.  For  we  cannot  claim  so  great  a  natural 
benevolence  as  to  endure  these  annoyances  and 
countenance  these  broken  promises,  just  for  love. 
We  love  Murray ;  yes,  it  is  true.  There  is  a  warm, 
glad  feeling  when  we  find  him  once  more  at  his 
typewriter,  glancing  up  at  us  with  that  veiled 
gratitude  of  his.  But  our  affection  will  not  brook 
everything.  It  must  be  that  our  subconscious 
passion  for  liberty,  a  passion  now  strangled  in 
the  company  of  men  steadied,  reconciled,  tamed, 
takes  form  in  the  delight  in  Murray,  who  cannot 
prevent  himself  from  following  his  appetites.  He 
is  only  an  intimate  manifestation  of  a  fallible 
world  which,  perhaps,  we  understood  better  than 
other  people  do.  We  pity  it  more ;  we  tolerate  it 
more.  We  know  that  this  world  has  aspirations, 
as  we  have,  and  fails,  as  we  do.  It  has  not  been 
in  us  to  withhold  forgiveness  from  its  Chick 
Murrays. 

Nevertheless,  this  is  now  certain : 

He  cannot  work  here  any  more.  The  Old  Man 
has  said  so — despite  appeals  from  Brown  and 
Josslyn — and  if  the  Old  Man  is  not  consistent, 
who  is?  And  if  the  Old  Man  cannot  throttle  his 
affection  for  this  boy,  and  shut  the  door  upon  him. 


DEADLINES tjs^ 

who  can  ?    It's  all  over  with  Murray,  so  far  as  the 
news-room  is  concerned. 

[V] 
T  ATER — he's  back.  He  isn't  going  to  drink  any 
^^  more.  He  has  paid  off  his  debts.  He  has 
made  peace  with  his  wife.  He  has  a  new  suit  on, 
and  is  writing  a  story,  very  carefully.  This  time 
we  think  he  is  saved. 

"Hello,  Chick.    Back  again,  eh?" 

"Hello,  fellows.  Yes,  Vm  on  the  wagon  for  good. 


[69] 


DEADLINES 


[V] 

Young-Man-Going- 
Somewhere 


[I] 

OUNG  -  MAN  -  GOING  -  SOME- 
WHERE  is  the  comrade  men- 
tioned in  the  first  of  these 
sketches  who  sat  stabbing  with 
his  cane  at  migratory  cockroaches 
and  wishing  he  were — ^anywhere. 
Most  of  us  are  reconciled  to  staying  in  or  near 
the  news-room,  doing  our  stuff,  eating  lunch  in 
the  same  place,  going  home  to  the  same  homes, 
and  expressing  generally  the  humdrummery  of 
being  efficient  and  reliable.  Young-Man-Going- 
Somewhere — his  name  is  John  Goode,  but  his 
sobriquet  is  Sinful — is  unreconciled.  In  his  own 
way  he  is  both  efficient  and  reliable,  but  he  would 
rather  be  them  some  other  place  than  where  he  is. 
He  expresses  for  us  the  everlasting  restlessness 
of  our  tribe,  just  as  the  Drunkard  expresses  our 
submerged  liberties;  and  thus,  requiring  some- 


DEADLINES ^701 

body  to  travel  for  us,  since  we  cannot  travel 
ourselves,  we  find  Sinful  Goode  very  essential. 
Indeed,  he  and  his  type  are  useful  to  the  pro- 
fession and  useful  even,  it  might  be  said,  to 
civilization.  For  if  there  were  not  newspaper 
men  whose  souls  demanded  movement  and  explo- 
ration, and  hardship  and  long,  long  trails,  if  there 
were  not  men  whose  curiosity  gives  them  no  rest, 
first  pages  would  be  a  great  deal  duller  than  they 
are. 

With  this  much  superfluous  reflection,  let  us 
apply  our  microscope  to  Young-Man-Going-Some- 
where. 

[11] 

T  CONFESS  that  I  have  not  given  you  his  real 
•*•  name.  Were  I  to  mention  it  you  might  recog- 
nize it.  At  least  it  would  be  well  known  in  a 
certain  small  town  where  Sinful  Goode  was  born, 
and  where  he  was  once  expelled  from  the  Debating 
Society.  Between  trips,  I  have  heard,  he  makes 
surreptitious  visits  to  his  aged  parents,  who  still 
live  in  the  town ;  but  these  do  not  count  among  his 
globe-trottings,  and  he  is  said  to  come  back  rather 
saddened. 

We  don't  really  know  anything  about  that.  We 
do  know  that  Goode  got  on  our  staff  somehow  or 
other  about  ten  years  ago,  and  that  within  six 
months  he  was  calling  the  chief  of  police,  the 
state's  attorney,  and  most  of  the  judges,  by  their 
first  names.   Also  he  seemed  to  know  about  streets 


[71] DEADLINES 

that  we  had  never  heard  of,  and  he  kept  making 
allusions  to  saloonkeepers,  yeggmen,  and  Chinese 
tong  leaders  whose  very  existence  was  news  to  us. 
He  must  have  spent  his  evenings  just  ferreting 
about.  He  was  tortured  by  that  terrible  curi- 
osity, and  gifted  with  that  faculty  of  making 
intimates,  that  has  taken  him  all  over  the  world. 
I  suppose  he  calls  various  Japanese  samurai  and 
Russian  novelists  and  French  deputies  by  their 
first  names,  too. 

It  was  after  he  had  been  here  only  a  year  that 
he  was  given  his  first  long  trip.  It  was  to  cover 
a  revolution  in  Venezuela,  or  maybe  Nicaragua. 
Now  don't  imagine  I'm  going  to  spin  a  yarn  that 
Sinful  Goode  led  the  army  and  settled  the  revo- 
lution. This  is  not  a  novel.  Sinful  didn't  do 
anything  but  send  home  some  cables  that  were 
printed  on  the  fourth  page,  and  then  come  home 
himself  and  growl  because  they  weren't  printed 
on  the  first.  <But,  having  proved  that  he  could 
live  on  tortillas  and  tarantulas,  he  was  the  logical 
man  to  go  to  Mexico  when  a  revolution  broke  out 
there.  The  revolution  was  opportune,  for  Goode 
had  by  now  developed  his  restlessness  in  full 
degree,  and  had  nearly  worn  the  Old  Man  to  death 
suggesting  that  he  sail  around  the  world  or 
something. 

"Goode's  going  to  Mexico,"  the  Old  Man  told 
the  city  editor. 

"Glad  of  it.    Hope  he  croaks,"  replied  the  c.  e., 


DEADLINES [J2j 

whose  nerves  had  also  been  worn  a  bit  thin  by 
having  Sinful  Goode  in  barracks. 

The  rest  of  us  were  more  benevolent.  We  gave 
Goode  a  farewell  dinner,  at  which  and  to  which 
our  doggerel  experts  did  great  execution.  Next 
day  we  inspected  his  new  riding  breeches,  his 
camera,  and  his  horrendous  revolver.  And  then 
we  forgot  him. 

It  must  have  been  that  the  revolution  was  one 
of  those  that  prove  more  exciting  in  El  Paso  than 
anywhere  else,  for  I  don't  recall  a  single  story 
that  Goode  sent  to  the  paper.  The  thing  that  does 
reverberate  in  memory  was  the  office  gossip  about 
Sinfurs  expense  account,  which  was  so  remarkable 
that  not  even  the  Old  Man  could  keep  still  about 
it.  The  chief  item  was  one  horse,  which  Goode 
bought  without  thinking  it  worth  while  to  ask 
permission  of  the  office.  And  under  the  general 
heading  of  "horse"  there  were  entries  such  as 
"food,"  "stabling"  and  "equipment."  Everything 
at  war  prices,  (Mex.) .  Everything  neatly  arranged 
in  columns,  and  a  balance  at  the  bottom,  decidedly 
in  Goode*s  favor. 

The  Old  Man,  according  to  report,  wired  our 
new-fledged  war  correspondent:  "Sell  horse  at 
once."  The  reply,  which  the  city  editor  showed 
to  some  of  us  in  confidence,  was  in  almost  these 
words :  "Assure  you  no  sense  in  selling  horse  at 
this  time.  Advise  wait  for  rising  market.  Mean- 
time cannot  traverse  this  God-forsaken  country 


[73J DEADLINES 

on  foot.    If  dissatisfied  with  my  work  say  so  and 
I'll  go  back  to  police  reporting." 

Well,  the  painful  episode  dragged  itself  along, 
to  the  great  advantage  of  the  telegraph  company. 
The  Old  Man  really  was  at  Goode's  mercy,  for  if 
a  correspondent  down  there  among  the  mesquite 
chose  to  argue  instead  of  obeying  or  resigning, 
the  only  way  the  Old  Man  could  end  the  argument 
was  by  wiring  Sinful  a  discharge ;  and  he  thought 
far  too  much  of  the  brash  youngster  to  do  that. 
How  it  all  might  have  ended  we  know  not ;  for  the 
logical  end  was  lost  in  the  outbreak  of  the  Great 
war,  which  made  Mexico,  Goode,  and  his  horse 
seem  like  first-reader  stuff. 

Naturally,  we  were  all  frantic  with  work  when 
the  calamity  swept  down  on  us;  and  yet,  from 
occasional  bulletins  that  reached  us  from  the  Old 
Man's  room,  or  gossip  told  us  in  chuckles  by  the 
telegraph  operators,  we  knew  that  Sinful  Goode 
was  not  idle. 

One  little  file  of  telegrams,  shown  us  by  Bungey, 
the  "chief  operator,"  revealed  the  situation : 

"Mexico  City. 
"Thain,  the  Press:  Am  leaving  for  Vera 
Cruz  Saturday ;  arrive  New  York  Thursday ; 
can  catch  Baltic  arrive  France  before  German 
invasion;  wire  three  thousand  dollars  Vera 
Cruz.  GOODE." 

"Goode,  care  American  consul  Mexico  City : 
You  have  not  been  ordered  Europe.  Come 
home.  THAIN." 


DEADLINES  [74] 

"Vera  Cruz,  Thain,  The  Press:  No  answer 
received  my  message  am  sailing  for  New  York 
Monday.  Need  money.  Can  borrow  but 
request  place  three  thousand  my  credit  Guar- 
anty Trust  Company.  Wire  Washington  issue 
my  passport  for  France  ask  war  department 
give  me  correspondent  credentials. 

"GOODE." 
"Goode,care  Guaranty  Trust  Company ,New 
York:  You  have  exceeded  all  orders  in  going 
to  New  York.    Come  home  at  once.    Wiring 
hundred  dollars  carefare.     .  THAIN." 

"New  York,  Thain,  The  Press:  Why  quib- 
ble about  exceeding  orders  ?  I  am  logical  man 
cover  this  scrap  for  you  where  can  you  get 
better?  Have  already  engaged  passage  Bal- 
tic. Paid  deposit  my  private  funds.  Does 
the  Press  want  to  be  in  debt  to  me?  Have 
arranged  with  Washington  my  passport. 
Rush  three  thousand.  "GOODE." 

"Goode,  care  Steamer  Baltic,  New  York: 
Can  see  advantages  your  going  since  already 
gone  part  way.  Did  you  get  money?  Take 
care  of  yourself.  "THAIN." 

We  all  read  these  messages  with  eagerness  and 
with  awe.  Not  one  of  us  could  have  wrangled 
thus  with  the  Old  Man  and  escaped  alive.  .  Sinful 
Goode,  with  his  insubordination  and  his  enterprise, 
had  made  the  terrible  Thain  surrender.  How  we 
wished    we    had  been    born    that    way!      How 


[753 DEADLINES 

we  envied  the  correspondent,  joyously  afloat, 
freighted  with  money  and  bound  for  the  Supreme 
Adventure ! 

And  yet,  would  we  stand  in  his  place,  destined 
for  hardship,  peril  and  the  chance  of  disgrace 
instead  of  glory?  Would  we  gamble  with  life  as 
did  he? 

Alas,  we  sighed,  we  were  not  born  to  do  it. 

[Ill] 

THE  war  swamped  us.  The  war  sprung  upon 
us  portentous  surprises,  incredible  emergen- 
cies. It  blinded  us  with  its  horror  and  its 
splendor ;  and,  meantime,  it  so  involved  us  in  new 
meshes  of  routine  that  we  could  scarcely  afford 
time  for  pleasurable  gossip.  Thus  Sinful  Goode 
and  his  Odyssey  became  remote  interests,  thrust 
upon  us  only  occasionally  by  the  task  of  decipher- 
ing his  cables. 

We  gathered  that  he  managed  to  get  arrested 
by  the  Germans  in  Belgium ;  that  he  argued  his 
way  to  freedom  and  then  argued  himself  into 
favor  with  the  advance  French  troops.  One  story 
told  us  how  he  watched  the  first  bombardment  of 
Rheims  as  he  lay  among  the  waving  grain; 
another  how  he  observed  an  engagement  from  the 
roof  of  a  shell-torn  house.  Later — we  scarcely 
knew  whether  it  was  months  or  years — he  was 
fleeing  from  Antwerp  among  the  refugees ;  again, 
he  was  at  Dunkirk  when  the  first  big  shells  fell 


DEADLINES [jej 

in  that  quaint  city.  Somehow  or  other  he  got  to 
the  eastern  battle  front  and  from  there  he  sent 
an  interview  with  Von  Hindenburg.  Astonish- 
ingly, he  was  in  London  when  the  Lusitania  was 
sunk;  and  yet  he  was  one  of  the  few  correspon- 
dents who  saw  the  French  advance  near  Arras. 

During  those  early  stages  of  the  war  he  must 
have  performed  prodigies  of  travel,  of  battle  with 
censors,  of  writing  well  under  trying  conditions, 
and  of  risking  his  idiotic  neck.  We  did  not  think 
much  about  it  at  the  time,  but  now  when  I  run 
through  a  scrap-book  of  Sinful  Goode's  cables  I 
am  astonished. 

The  Old  Man,  meantime,  made  no  secret  of  his 
delight  in  the  work  of  "our  own  correspondent." 
He  used  to  say:  "Best  inspiration  I  ever  had, 
sending  that  chap  to  the  war.  Of  course,  he'll  get 
killed,  but — fortunes  of  the  profession,  you  know." 

Goode  did  not  get  killed.  Instead,  he  got  bored. 
When  the  western  front  settled  down  to  its  dead- 
lock in  the  trenches  Goode  became  silent,  and 
probably  sulky.  There  were  long  weeks  when  he 
sent  nothing.  It  was  even  rumored  that  he  was 
coming  home.  The  Gallipoli  campaign,  however, 
restored  him.  I  don't  recall  how  it  was  he  got 
there,  if  we  ever  knew;  but  suddenly  he  was  heard 
from  in  a  dispatch  that  proved  to  be  his  first 
blunder.  He  cabled  us  that  the  British  landings 
had  succeeded,  and  that  the  capture  of  the  penin- 


[77]        DEADLINES 

sula  was  certain.  I  remember  well  the  flurry  in 
the  office  that  day;  the  telegraph  editor  rushing 
in  to  the  Old  Man  with  Goode's  cable,  and  rushing 
out  again  red  in  the  face ;  also,  later,  how  a  dubious 
conference  developed  the  fact  that  the  Associated 
Press  did  not  support  Sinf ul's  story,  and  how  the 
Old  Man  said:  "I  don't  care.  I  stick  by  Goode. 
What's  the  use  of  having  a  special  correspondent 
if  you  don't  believe  him  ?"  We  kept  up  the  eight- 
column  head,  and  kept  up  our  spirits  by  talking 
about  the  censor. 

It  all  seemed  so  exciting  then,  and  now  seems 
so  dead! 

Well,  we  rushed  a  "query"  by  cable,  and  after 
about  a  week  we  began  to  wonder  if  the  Old  Man 
would  recall  our  friend  Sinful.  Whether  he  con- 
sidered this  we  never  learned;  but  evidently  he 
could  not  have  done  it  if  he  had  tried.  Young- 
Man-Going-Somewhere  had  always  just  gone 
somewhere  else  before  messages  of  that  kind 
arrived.  And  by  the  time  it  had  become  fully 
clear  that  Constantinople  was  not  to  be  captured 
Goode  was  up  in  the  Balkans. 

Does  it  seem  incredible  that  a  correspondent — 
especially  one  working  for  the  Old  Man — should 
dodge  about  so  independent  of  office  orders  ?  Well, 
if  it  does,  I  can  only  say  that  Sinful  Goode  was 
sui  generis,  that  he  followed  no  traditions,  and 
that  he  would  not  have  obeyed  orders  if  he  had 


DEADLINES [jn 

had  them.    The  Old  Man  was  wise  enough  not  to 
send  him  any. 

The  Old  Man  would  never,  for  example,  have 
ordered  Sinful  Goode  to  join  the  Serbian  army  on 
its  great  retreat.  Goode  sent  himself  on  that 
assignment.  Pursuing  his  faculty  of  getting  "in" 
with  big  people,  he  attached  himself  to  the  per- 
sonal headquarters  of  Prince  Alexander — called 
the  prince  by  his  first  name,  probably — and  went 
clear  through  to  the  coast  with  that  valiant  group 
leading  a  streaan  of  ragged,  desperate  men.  Goode 
slept  on  the  frozen  ground  along  with  the  prince 
and  his  army;  starved  with  them;  fought  their 
battles  against  marauding  bands,  and  helped  save 
the  remnants.  At  the  coast  he  separated  from  the 
army,  took  a  rowboat  out  into  the  Adriatic  and 
caught  some  kind  of  tramp  steamer,  whereon  he 
made  a  long  and  hideous  journey  to  Athens. 
Arriving  there,  a  very  skeleton  of  the  ruddy  and 
cheerful  Sinful  Goode,  he  dictated  ten  thousand 
words,  and  then  collapsed. 

When  the  Old  Man  received  that  cable,  he  sent 
Goode  the  single  word:    "Congratulations." 
This  was  the  answer : 

"Congratulations  received.  After  a  man 
has  had  all  the  infernal  starvation  tours  of 
the  war  and  has  been  the  goat  for  the  tough- 
est assignments  and  got  nothing  out  of  it  but 
dysentery  it  feels  great  to  get  a  boost  like 
yours,  that  cost  such  tolls — oh,  yes,  I  assure 


f79] DEADLINES 

you  it  does!  How  about  that  salary  raise? 
How  about  that  request  for  5,000  French 
francs  I  never  got  ?  Does  anybody  ever  think 
about  me?  Does  office  know  I'm  alive?  Just 
received  copies  paper  see  my  Balkan  stuff 
butchered  and  stuck  on  inside  pages.  Nice 
work,  thank  you.    Congratulations. 

"GOODE." 
He  was  so  angry,  you  see,  that  he  put  in  a  lot  of 
"thes"  and  "ands,"  at  commercial  rate. 

The  Old  Man,  looking  grieved,  brought  in  the 
message  to  the  city  editor,  and  remarked:  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  that  fellow." 

The  city  editor  pondered,  and  together  they 
concocted  this: 

"Goode,  Athens:    Do  you  want  to  come 
home?" 

But  Sinful  never  got  this  message,  for  he  had 
started  for  Paris,  there  to  squander  huge  amounts 
of  the  Press  funds  in  peach  Melbas  at  Ame- 
nonville,  and  raspberry  tarts  at  Paillard's  and 
"American  cocktails"  at  the  Chatham. 

[IV] 

IT  would  hardly  be  worth  while  to  describe  in 
so  much  detail  the  rest  of  SinfuFs  war  experi- 
ence. He  got  into  Russia  right  after  the  first 
revolution,  and  got  out  again  in  time  to  see  the 
vanguard  of  the  American  troops  land  in  France. 
Later  in  the  year  he  returned  to  Russia,  where  he 


DEADLINES ijoj 

made  friends  with  the  bolsheviki  and  had  three 
meals  a  day  quite  regularly.  He  was  here,  there 
and  everywhere  during  the  next  year ;  had  typhus 
in  Warsaw,  got  part  of  an  ear  clipped  off  near 
St.  Mihiel,  and  fought  a  duel  with  a  French  editor. 
He  was  growing  restless  and  homesick,  that  was 
evident.  We  began  to  get  post-cards  from  him 
begging  for  news  of  the  staff.  He  sent  Josslyn 
the  latest  book  by  Barbusse,  and  wrote:  "For 
God's  sake,  try  to  smuggle  some  American  cigars 
to  me."  Then — ^the  armistice.  And  a  cable  from 
Goode :  "Sailing  Thursday  Adriatic."  I  fancy  the 
Old  Man  breathed  a  luxurious  sigh. 

Among  the  staff  there  was  both  glee  and  incer- 
titude over  the  approaching  return  of  the  Great 
Correspondent.  Would  Goodey  (as  we  had  taken 
to  calling  him)  show  signs  of  being  "up-stage"? 
Was  it  possible  for  this  distinguished  journalist, 
who  had  been  consorting  with  princes,  generals, 
premiers  and  proprietors  of  Parisian  cafes  to  meet 
us  on  our  level?  Would  he  overwhelm  us  with 
French  and  Italian  ?  Would  he  be  wearing  spats 
and  a  fur-collared  overcoat? 

These  mild  anxieties  we  kept  mostly  to  our- 
selves; only  it  was  said  more  than  once,  with  a 
certain  disgust,  "He'll  think  he's  too  good  for 
ordinary  news  work." 

After  about  a  week  the  signs  of  his  approach 
began  to  accumulate.  A  letter  or  two  with  foreign 
post-marks,  addressed  "John  Temple  Goode,  Esq." 


[81] DEADLINES 

Telephone  message  from  prominent  citizens,  ask- 
ing when  Mr.  Goode  might  be  expected.  Then  a 
telegram  from  Sinful  himself:  "Arriving  Satur- 
day noon  be  ready  to  develop  first  photos  armistice 
celebration  Paris." 

About  one  o'clock  Saturday  a  group  of  us 
sitting  in  the  cigar  store  saw  passing  a  tallish, 
square -shouldered  figure  surmounted  by  a 
weather-stained  fedora  and  slung  about  with  a 
camera.  It  was  Goode,  God  bless  him!  The 
same  ruddy,  challenging  face ;  the  same  old  man- 
gled cigar  between  his  teeth.  Even  the  same  suit 
of  clothes  he  wore  to  Mexico,  I  shouldn't  wonder. 

Forgetting  his  greatness,  we  rushed  out  into 
the  street,  shook  him  and  slapped  him;  and  we 
said,  "Sinful,  you  old  eggV*  and  we  cried,  "You 
big  stiff,  you're  looking  fine — but  you're  getting 
grey." 

And  the  friend  of  princes  grinned  and  spat,  and 
then  said:  "Look  here,  fellows,  I've  got  some 
photos  to  get  developed.  Got  a  story  to  write,  too. 
Gosh,  but  the  old  loop  looks  great.  How's  the  Old 
Man  ?    How's  Josslyn  ?    How's  everybody  ?" 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  was  in  the  Old  Man's  room 
arguing  about  his  expense  account;  and  we  knew 
that  Sinful  Goode  had  returned  unchanged. 

[V] 

TJE  is  unchanged  still. 

^  ^  It  is  now  some  years  since  the  war.  Every- 
body, including  Goode,  has  almost  forgotten  it. 


DEADLINES [82j 

He  has  been  away  twice,  the  first  time  in  South 
America,  the  second  in  Siberia.  On  both  trips  he 
worked  like  fury,  "kicked"  continually  by  cable, 
lived  among  outlandish  folk  and  took  insane  risks ; 
only  to  return  unchanged. 

He  attends  luncheons  given  by  bankers,  to 
obtain  his  opinion  of  possibilities  of  foreign  trade. 
He  receives  mysterious  letters  from  the  State 
Department,  desiring  information.  He  makes 
addresses  before  chambers  of  commerce.  Three 
publishing  houses  have  asked  him  for  books,  but 
he  has  been  too  lazy  to  write  them,  and  he  has 
never  been  able  to  finish  his  novel. 

Sometimes  when  I  see  him  pondering  at  his 
desk  I  suspect  he  finds  greater  futility  in  life  than 
any  of  us.  He  has  never  had  a  home.  During  his 
frantic  dashes  about  the  world  he  has  accumulated 
nothing  but  a  crazy-quilt  of  baggage  labels  and  a 
collection  of  room  keys.  His  wife — did  I  mention 
that  he  has  a  wife? — has  seen  him  only  about 
three  weeks  of  each  year;  her  life  has  been  a 
procession  of  pensions.  Goode  has  saved  nothing ; 
he  owns  nothing,  save  a  helter-skelter  collection 
of  pipes,  Prussian  helmets,  Japanese  fans,  auto- 
graphs, and  time  tables. 

Ah,  but  he  has  his  friendships!  Like  the  rest 
of  us,  he  has  these,  though  all  else  may  have 
failed.  Indeed,  he  has  a  home.  This  is  it,  this 
news-room,  with  its  battered  desks  and  its  cracked 
plastering.     Here,  amid  the  happy  family— the 


r83] DEADLINES 

Star,  Josslyn,  Brown,  the  city  editor,  amiable 
Barlow  and  others — he  sinks  into  a  contented 
comradeship  that  is  faintly  like  drawing  up  to  a 
table  full  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

Then  there  is  the  cigar  store.  Sinful  Goode  sits 
smoking  a  mangled  cigar,  and  grinning  at  each  of 
us  in  turn. 

"Say,  Goodey,  why  don't  you  write  those  books 
and  get  famous?" 

"Yes,  Goodey,  why  don't  you  capitalize  your 
name?" 

"My  name?  It  stands  for  fried  fish,  I  guess. 
Write  books!  I'm  a  newspaper  guy,  I  am.  So 
long's  I  get  my  stuff  in  the  paper  .  .  .  ." 

A  pause. 

"What  are  Russian  hotels  like?  Do  they  heat 
'em?" 

Goode  yawns. 

"Say,  when  did  they  start  the  new  Madison 
street  bridge  ?"  he  inquires  with  real  interest. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him. 

[VI] 

TT  almost  seems  as  though  he  might  stay  at 
•*-  home  now. 

But  no.  He  confides  that  this  very  afternoon 
he  is  going  to  "talk  turkey  to  the  old  man,"  and 
tell  him  he  has  a  chance  to  go  to  the  polar  regions 
in  an  aeroplane,  and  shall  he  try  it  on  ? 

Until  he  is  silver-haired  and  palsied,  and  until 


DEADLINES [j4i 

his  fingers  can  no  longer  pound  a  portable  type- 
writer, he  will  always  be  the  Young-Man-Going- 
Somewhere. 


[85] 


DEADLINES 


[VI] 
The  Cub 


x^ 


[I] 


F  wishes  were  horses,  the  Cub 
would  ride  long,  dusty  trails  with 
Sinful  Goode.  As  it  is,  he  sits 
much  of  the  time  with  his  feet 
on  his  desk,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  head  sunken  upon 
his  breast,  and  dreams. 

He  is  not  asleep;  not  quite.  Therefore  his 
dreams  are  not  of  fantasy,  but  of  probability. 
They  are  ambitions.  They  are  his  present  life  a 
thousand  times  glorified  and  decorated.  But  they 
are  as  futile  as  any  dreams;  and  when  they  are 
over  they  are  just  as  bitter. 

The  Cub  half  slumbers  at  his  desk,  while  far 
down  the  room  a  group  of  "executives,"  tran- 
scendent beings  to  whom  the  Cub  says  "sir," 
discuss  matters  in  general  and  occasionally,  catch- 
ing sight  of  the  Cub,  discuss  him.  These  voices 
are  inaudible  to  the  Cub.  Could  he  hear  them 
they  would  make  a  strange  accompaniment  to  his 


DEADLINES ij^ 

dreams,  much  as  the  distant  and  irrelevant 
remarks  made  by  doctors  and  nurses  sound  to  a 
patient  half-way  under  an  anaesthetic. 

This  is  an  antiphony  of  the  Cub's  illusions  and 
the  "executives' "  voices. 

[11] 

IT  should  be  noted  that  the  Cub  has  been  here 
only  a  fortnight.  '  He  was  recommended  to  the 
city  editor  by  the  advertising  manager,  who 
learned  of  him  through  a  big  advertiser  who  has 
a  great  friend  whose  son  the  Cub  is.  ■ 

A  voice:  "Of  course,  I  don't  usually  fall  for 
these  fish  that  get  in  by  way  of  business  office. 
But  I'm  the  chief  sufferer,  after  all." 

Second  voice :  "No,  you're  wrong ;  I  am." 

Third  voice  (to  first) :  "We  know  you,  George. 
You're  as  soft  as  the  advertising  manager,  and 
the  two  of  you  together,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  Old 
Man,  would  soon  have  the  shop  full  of  Oxford- 
men  and  lap-dogs." 

First  voice:  "You  chaps  go  to  hell.  As  for  this 
Cub,  I  think  he's  got  the  makin's." 

A  new  voice :  "I  think  so,  too." 

Third  voice:  "Oh,  as  for  you,  Josslyn,  if  you 
found  a  sow's  ear  on  the  sidewalk  you'd  advertise 
it  in  the  Lost  and  Found." 

Et  seq. 


[87] DEADLINES 

[HI] 
T  TE  dreams. 

rX  At  last  he  is  a  journalist.  Behold,  he  is 
here,  surrounded  by  great  news-men  and  great 
writers ;  he  is  sitting,  as  by  right,  in  this  chamber 
of  fascinating  shadows.  Only  a  little  while  ago 
he  walked  in  for  the  first  time,  passing  the  door- 
boy  loftily  because  he  had  a  right  to  come  in.  He 
remembers  other  doors  and  other  door-boys; 
remembers  them  with  pain  and  with  disdain.  He 
recalls  pacing  various  corridors,  while  his  card, 
inscribed  "Frederick  Reid  Dunstane,"  went  with 
his  soul  into  the  invisible.  Now  all  that  is  over. 
He  is  "in." 

In  the  dream  he  is  a  larger,  more  dignified,  more 
intellectual  being  than  formerly.  During  those 
waits  in  various  corridors  he  was  a  puny  and 
forlorn  soul,  a  lip-biter,  a  waif  quite  without 
standing  or  importance.  He  forgot  that  he  was 
a  member  of  select  college  organizations,  a  tea- 
fighter  of  prowess,  a  superb  figure  on  the  dance- 
floor,  and  a  D.  S.  M.  As  he  stood  in  those  corri- 
dors, leaning  sullenly  against  the  wall,  he  eyed 
the  light-hearted,  fraternizing  young  men,  plainly 
members  of  the  staff,  who  passed  into  the  elevator 
and  who  gave  him  glances  he  considered  mocking ; 
and  no  shivering  Lazarus  ever  eyed  banquet 
guests  more  humbly  or  more  enviously  than  he. 
But  now  he  is  grown  once  more  to  fill  out  his 
clothes,  and  he  carries  a  cane  at  the  same  angle 


DEADLINES [jsj 

as  the  Star's  cane,  and  he  has  already  lent  five 
dollars  to  the  Drunkard,  and  he  calls  the  city 
editor  half-familiarly  "boss."  Also  he  reads  the 
paper's  editorials  scornfully,  as  is  the  news-room 
habit,  and  he  has  learned  to  speak  of  contemporary 
publications  as  loutish  and  unenterprising. 

In  his  dreams  he  is  already  quite  the  equal  of 
his  mates  in  resource  of  undertaking  and  in 
savoir-faire;  and  he  feels  more  than  competent 
stylistically.  He  is,  in  fact,  bursting  with  literary 
impulse.  Original  phrases  are  spurting  within 
him.  (He  does  not  dream  that  they  were  sug- 
gested to  him  by  the  Star's  latest  story.)  In  fancy 
he  opens  his  typewriter  and  writes.  He  writes 
furiously,  fluently,  in  an  ecstasy.  And  boys  in 
relays  stand  at  his  elbow,  seizing  the  sheets  as 
they  pour  from  the  machine.  And  the  city  editor 
strolls  up  behind  him  and  says,  affectionately: 
"Take  it  easy,  old  chap ;  you've  got  fifteen  minutes 
yet."  Then  the  presses  thunder  more  loudly,  and 
behold,  here  is  his  story,  long,  black,  and  lovely, 
on  the  first  page.  And  there  are  groups  of  great 
journalists  about,  devouring  his  story.  All  the 
copy-readers  are  talking  about  it. 

What  figure  is  this,  marching  in  through  the 
swinging  door,  and  crying  out,  "Who  wrote  this 
splendid  story?" 

"Why,  it  is  the  Old  Man,  who  somehow  has  over- 
looked the  Cub's  presence  hitherto,  but  who  now 
seeks  him  out  with  a  warm  grip  of  the  hand,  and 


DEADLINES 


the  tribute,  **You  are  the  sort  of  material  we 
need." 

[IV] 

T7IRST  voice:  "The  reason  is  that  if  I  gave  him 
•*•  more  than  two  sticks  to  write  he'd  murder  it." 

Second  voice :  "Yes,  they're  all  alike,  those  cubs. 
If  old  Rud  Kipling  himself  were  to  tackle  a  good, 
snappy  fire  his  story  would  have  to  be  rewritten." 

Third  voice :  "I  read  his  copy  yesferday.  Lord, 
it  was  fierce !" 

A  new  voice :  "Oh,  he'll  catch  on.  I  was  talking 
to  him  this  morning  .  .  .  ." 

All  the  previous  voices:  "Josslyn,  when  will 
you  learn?" 

[V] 

HE  is  dreaming  about  being  called  out  of  bed 
at  six  a.  m.  and  sent  to  take  charge  of  a 
special  crew  assigned  to  cover  the  city's  greatest 
fire. 

The  taxicab  tears  westward  over  the  river, 
toward  the  typhoon  of  smoke  and  flame.  The  Cub 
is  sternly  calm.  To  one  of  his  three  companions 
he  says :  "You,  Billy,  you'd  better  get  the  list  of 
firms  and  losses";  to  another,  "Murray,  you  are 
assigned  to  dead  and  injured";  he  directs  the 
third,  "Wallace,  do  features.  I'll  go  on  ahead  with 
the  chief,  up  into  the  building."  He  pulls  up  his 
overcoat  collar.    "Report  to  me  in  half  an  hour. 


DEADLINES tioj 

I'll  take  your  stuff  into  the  office  and  write  the 
story/' 

They  arrive  at  the  fire.  The  great  reporter, 
formerly  the  Cub,  descries  the  fire  chief,  a  mas- 
sive figure  in  rubber  coat,  peering  up  at  the  tall 
streams  of  water  and  piercing  the  steam-clouds 
with  his  old  eyes. 

"Hello,  chief ;  Fm  Dunstane,  of  the  Press." 
"Why,  hello,  Dunstane ;  glad  you're  here." 
The  inside  facts  of  the  fire  are  immediately  in 
the  Cub's  possession.  He  rushes  on,  on,  quite 
to  the  foremost  skirmish  line  of  the  battle.  He 
climbs  with  a  group  of  pipemen  to  an  upper  floor, 
swirling  with  smoke,  and  with  its  windows  yawn- 
ing empty  to  the  sky.  In  this  deserted  loft  he 
discovers  a  telephone.  Good !  The  wire  is  working. 
He  connects  the  office — it  is  now  seven  o'clock — 
and  calls  the  city  desk,  calmly  and  sternly. 

"Mr.  Brown?  I'm  up  in  the  burning  building, 
cut  off  from  rescue,  if  anything  should  happen. 
.  .  .  No,  I  think  there  is  no  real  danger.  Those 
crashes  you  hear  are  only  falling  bricks.  .  .  . 
Give  you  the  complete  story  in  half  an  hour. 
Ta-ta!" 

He  drops  from  the  window  in  safety.  He 
brushes  aside  anxious  firemen  who  would  give 
him  first  aid.  Though  bruised  and  half  choked, 
he  rounds  up  his  crew,  receives  their  reports,  and 
taxis  back  to  the  office,  where  he  curtly  announces: 
"Two  million  loss ;  gimme  some  copy-paper  quick." 


t9i] DEADLINES 

The  staff  watch  him  with  awe.  From  a  far  comer 
a  Cub — oh,  a  much  more  verdant  and  ineffective 
Cub  than  Dunstane  once  was — projects  himself 
into  the  dream,  steals  up  and  eyes  Dunstane's 
flying  fingers.  And  afterward  Dunstane  kindly 
allows  the  Cub  to  speak  to  him,  and  he  tells  how 
he  did  it.    And  the  Cub  accepts  a  cigar 

[VI] 

A  VOICE :  "He  was  out  with  Wallace  the  other 
day  on  that  4-11  alarm.  Wallace  says  he 
kicked  the  whole  time  because  we  weren't  going  to 
let  him  write  anything.  Got  several  of  his  figures 
wrong,  too.    I  wonder  if  it's  any  use.    .   .    ." 

Second  voice :  "Oh,  he  must  have  got  some  good 
experience  out  of  it." 

Third  voice :  "He  ought  to  have  plenty  of  nerve. 
Fm  told  he  brought  down  three  German  planes 
in  the  Argonne.*' 

First  voice :  "But  look  at  him  over  there,  half- 
asleep.  What  do  you  suppose  he's  day-dreaming 
about?" 

[VII]  ""^^ 

THIS  time  it  is  about  Europe.    Europe,  where 
he  once  was.    How  he  hated  it!    With  what 
zest  he  enjoyed  everything  which  read,  looked  or 
smelled  like  America.    Ah,  if  he  ever  got  back  to 
God's  country,  why,  never  again ! 
But  now,  if  he  could  only  get  back  to  Europe ! 


DEADLINES l92j 

He  would  make  a  distinguished  Paris  corre- 
spondent, he  would,  what  with  his  knowledge  of 
French.  Would  they  let  him  try  it?  Why,  the 
cables  he  would  send  would  place  the  Press  on  sC 
new  basis,  internationally  speaking.  He  could  go 
tomorrow — tomorrow,  and  start  in  at  once  inter- 
viewing monarchs  and  presidents.  In  this  vision 
he  has  passed  far  beyond  the  level  of  that  grimy 
being  of  a  moment  ago,  condescending  to  talk  to 
fire  chiefs.  He  now  has  the  entree  to  intellectual 
salons  and  to  grave  council  chambers.  He  has  no 
need  to  make  appointments  with  premiers  and 
those  fellows;  but  immediately  he  sends  in  his 
card,  "Frederick  Reid  Dunstane,"  obsequious  sec- 
retaries usher  him  into  gilded  bureaus  of  "the 
most  high,  and  he  confers — he  does  not  interview, 
he  confers — with  the  men  who  are  making  a  hew 
Europe. 

There  is  no  present  hope,  perhaps.  But  wait- 
wait!  They  will  find  him  out.  They  are  bound  to 
realize  soon  that  he  is  the  very  man  for  the  Paris 
post.  Preferably  Paris,  but  as  a  second  choice, 
London.  The  dream  sweeps  on.  A  war  breaks  out. 
He  is  the  first  correspondent  to  be  informed  of 
the  ultimatum.  He  rushes  to  the  cable  office,  and 
barriers  of  censorship  are  officially  lifted,  that  the 
great  Frederick  Dunstane  may  send  the  TRUTH. 

The  President  of  the  United  States  cables  to 
Mr.  Dunstane  to  learn  further  details.  Mr.  Dun- 
stane advises  intervention  by  the  United  States. 


[93] DEADLINES 

And  all  this  is  chronicled  in  the  Press  as  the  work 
of  "our  correspondent." 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Dunstane  repairs  to  the 
Cafe  Napolitain,  on  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines, 
where  all  the  great  correspondents  meet  to  sip 
brandy,  and  where  all  the  monde,  together  with 
no  small  part  of  the  demi-monde,  sit  at  small 
tables  and  gaze  at  celebrities.  Mr.  Dunstane 
appears,  great  but  modest.  Groups  of  drinkers 
spring  up  to  offer  him  their  chairs,  or  to  grasp  his 
hand,  or  to  demand  the  latest  inside  news.  He  is 
unaffected  by  his  distinction,  speaks  democratic- 
ally to  the  correspondents  of  the  Times  and  the 
Morning  >Telegraph,  accepts  one  of  the  proffered 
chairs,  and  sips  brandy — ^very  abstemiously.  The 
great  city,  the  great  world,  in  whose  center  he  sits 
and  of  which,  in  fact,  he  is  the  center,  gyrates 
around  him.  And  he,  breaker  of  nations,  but  still 
a  journalist,  takes  his  ease. 

[VIII] 

VOICE :  "You  know  the  first  day  he  came  he 
asked  if  there  wasn't  a  job  open  in  Paris." 
Laughter. 

[IX] 

THE  news  room  seems  to  be  emptying  for  the 
day.  The  group  of  "executives"  has  scattered, 
all  save  the  city  editor.  He  is  folding  up  his 
copies  of  the  late  editions,  and  pinning  discarded 
stuff  on  spindles,  preparatory  to  closing  his  desk. 


DEADLINES [911 

The  mysterious  shadows  of  the  long,  gloomy 
room  are  deepening.  And  the  Cub  is  rousing  from 
his  visions. 

But  not  before  he  sees  himself  grey,  portly 
and  whiskered,  as  it  is  possible  some  day  he  may 
be.  Yes,  he  can  prefigure  even  that  far-away  time. 
And  what  will  he  be  then?  Well,  surely  an  owner, 
nothing  else.  He  will  be  a  cultured,  traveled, 
urbane  owner,  sitting  at  a  polished  mahogany  desk 
entirely  clear  of  papers,  and  conducting  business 
over  a  battery  of  telephones.  He  will  wear  a 
frock  coat  with  silk  lapels,  and  be  spoken  of  for 
senator.  He  will  be  too  busy,  probably,  to  do  any 
actual  editorial  work,  but  he  will  have  many,  many 
able  men  to  do  this  for  him ;  and  they  will  know 
that  although  his  writing  days  are  over,  he  was 
once  the  best  of  them  all,  and  still  possesses  such 
professional  acuteness  that  "it's  no  use  trying  to 
put  anything  over  on  the  old  man." 

He  will  have  a  new  building,  instead  of  this 
modest  structure  from  which  the  Press  is  issued. 
It  will  have  a  tower,  and  a  huge  clock  with  a 
luminous  face,  and  there  will  be  letters  in  blazing 
electricity  all  around  the  cornice:  "The  Press; 
Frederick  Reid  Dunstane,  Proprietor."  On  an 
election  night  his  portrait,  as  the  man  who  chose 
the  new  President  of  the  United  States,  will  be 
displayed  in  red  fire. 

But  he  will  remain  democratic.  He  will  invite 
his  editors  to  lunch,  and  know  his  printers  by 


t953 DEADLINES 

their  first  names.  Yes,  even  the  newest  and 
homeliest  of  the  copy-boys  shall  have  access  to 
him. 

.■■-*' 

[X] 

THERE  is  a  shuffling  of  feet  beside  the  Cub's 
desk.  A  grimy  paw  musses  the  papers  on  the 
desk.  A  voice  of  adolescence  speaks  in  rather 
execrable  accents : 

"Say,  Mr.  Brown  says  you  should  finish  that 
club  notice  for  tomorrow's  paper.  He  says  you 
should  hurry." 

The  Cub  slowly  removes  his  feet  from  his  desk, 
takes  his  hands  from  his  pockets,  and  blinks. 

In  the  full  light  of  reason  he  perceives  the  blunt 
truth :  He  is  but  one  rung  higher  than  the  copy- 
boy. 


[97] 


DEADLINES 


[vn] 

The  Old  Man 


[I] 


^   '^n^  these  days  it  seems  incredible 

W  that  the  Old  Man  was  ever  a  Cub. 

I  Yet  such  he  was.    I  have  seen  a 

I  photograph  of  him  at  the  age  of 

I  twenty.  There  looks  out  from  the 

*    =J|  frame  a  lean,  eager  face,  with 

wide  eyes  and  sensitive  lips.  A  startling  brush  of 

hair,  a  la  pompadour,  crowns  the  forehead.    The 

personality  that  quivers  there  is  vivid  despite  the 

fading  of  the  print.  It  looks  wistfully  and  severely 

down  the  years,  and  offers  silent  criticism  of  the 

bulkier  personality  that  it  has  become. 

The  Old  Man  now  confesses  "fifty  odd."  His  hair 
crosses  his  skull  in  sparse,  grey-black  strands. 
His  blue  eyes  smolder  behind  heavy  spectacles. 
His  shoulders,  his  hands,  his  limbs,  his  walk, 
have  become  ponderous.  The  floor  creaks  when 
he  traverses  it.  His  chair  groans  at  his  touch. 
The  weight  of  his  responsibility  is  upon  him  and 
all  that  he  does ;  and  the  weight  of  his  authority 
is  upon  us.  We  are  now  the  lean,  eager  creatures 


DEADLINES [jsj 

straining  at  life.  The  Old  Man  has  become  a 
figure  of  another  generation  and  another  signifi- 
cance. He  symbolizes  government,  importance 
and  permanence.  Pie  is  our  law-giver,  our 
repressor ;  but  he  is  also  our  security,  our  refuge. 
Who  shall  chastise  us?  The  Old  Man.  But  who 
shall  restore  and  comfort  us?  None  but  the  Old 
Man.  He  sits  there  supporting  "the  office"  upon 
his  broad  shoulders,  suggesting  in  his  formidable 
physique  itself  that  the  institution  we  belong  to 
is  no  fragile  thing.  To  be  able  to  do  this  has 
cost  him  something;  it  has  cost  him  the  ardency 
and  sensitiveness  of  the  photograph.  All  of  that 
is  grown  over  by  the  protective  layers,  both 
physical  and  mental,  that  he  has  had  to  build  up. 
It  is  grown  over — but  perhaps  it  still  lives. 

[11] 

PROMPTLY  on  the  stroke  of  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing the  Old  Man  emerges  from  the  elevator, 
and  a  minute  later  one  can  hear  the  lid  of  his 
private  desk  go  up  with  a  rush  and  crash.  The 
swivel  chair  gives  its  familiar  groan.  There  is  a 
moment's  silence,  and  then  the  Old  Man's  voice 
is  heard,  calling  for  the  morning  papers. 

His  voice  is  a  curious  organ,  musical  with 
chest  tones,  but  sharpening  easily  to  acrimony, 
and  sometimes,  in  extreme  impatience,  becoming 
plaintive,  despairing.  At  this  hour  of  the  day, 
when  the  boy,  as  usual,  has  forgotten  the  morning 


[99] 


DEADLINES 


papers,  the  Old  Man's  voice  is  always  at  its  highest 
note  of  weary  insolence.  In  the  few  words  it 
utters,  it  suggests  the  immense  distance  between 
the  Old  Man  and  the  boy,  and  the  utter  triviality 
of  the  process  of  discharging  the  boy.  But,  some- 
how, the  Old  Man  never  does  discharge  the  boy. 
The  small,  round  face  of  this  functionary  reflects 
surprise,  fear  and  enormous  stupidity  as  he  peers 
in  at  the  Old  Man's  door.  He  sums  up  everything 
with  his  "Yessir." 

"Tell  Brown  to  come  here,"  commands  the  Old 
Man,  with  an  impatient  jounce  in  his  chair. 

Brown  arrives,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  eye-shade. 
His  lean  face  is  apprehensive,  but  his  chin  is 
determined,  and  there  is  a  twist  of  something  like 
humor  about  his  mouth.  He  stands  silently  in  the 
door,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

The  Old  Man  pretends  to  be  busy  reading  a 
letter.  At  length  he  slowly  turns  his  fearsome 
spectacles,  through  which  his  eyes  appear  magni- 
fied and  very  bright,  in  Brown's  direction,  and 
he  emits  a  slight  sound,  unrecognizable  either  as 
greeting  or  as  warning.  A  pause,  a»d  he  says : 

"We  muffed  that  jewel  robbery  story  yesterday. 
The  Journal  had  it  all  over  us." 

Another  pause. 

"The  Journal  always  beats  us  on  a  police  story." 

This  rouses  Brown,  as  is  the  intention. 

"Not  always,"  he  says  quietly. 

The  Old  Man  brings  down  his  hand  upon  his 
letters. 


DEADLINES      yooj 

"Yes — always.  When  I  say  always,  I  mean — 
always.  Yesterday,  today,  and  forever.  Our  police 
staff  is  no  good.  It  needs  a  shaking  up — nothing's 
ever  done  unless  I  start  it  myself."  The  chair 
groans.  "Here  I  am,  twenty  years  older  than  any 
of  you,  and  I  have  to  furnish  the  ginger.  You 
young  fellows  .  .  ."  another  untranslatable  sound. 

Brown  is  paler  than  before. 

"Maybe  you  think,"  he  counters  in  his  thin, 
steady  voice,  "maybe  you  thing  the  staff  shake-up 
should  begin  at  the  top." 

"Maybe  it  should,"  retorts  the  Old  Man 
instantly.  He  always  rises  to  a  challenge  of  this 
sort.  The  two  men  eye  each  other.  Outside  in 
the  hall  the  boy  is  telegraphing  to  other  boys  that 
hell  is  popping. 

"Well,"  says  Brown,  taking  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets,  "IVe  done  my  best." 

"All  I  can  say  to  that,"  blurts  the  Old  Man, 
with  his  habitual  answer  to  the  plea  he  has  heard 
a  thousand  times,  "is  that  your  best  isn't  good 
enough." 

"Very  well,"  says  the  city  editor,  taking  off  his 
eye-shade,  as  though  by  the  act  he  lays  down 
office ;  "very  well,  then,  I  .  .  ." 

At  this  moment  the  telephone  on  the  Old  Man's 
desk  rings.  Compressing  his  lips,  he  takes  up 
the  receiver  and  listens,  his  cold  blue  gaze  resting 
absently  upon  Brown.  He  speaks  shortly  once, 
and  hangs  up. 


[1011 


'Deadlines 


"Look  here,"  he  remarks,  quite  in  his  ordinary 
tone,  "there's  going  to  be  a  riot  on  the  Board  of 
Trade  this  morning.  Better  start  somebody  down 
early."  He  speaks  now  on  terms  of  equality  and 
complete  friendliness.  "The  situation  has  been 
cooking  up  for  some  time.  You'd  better  have 
Manlius  go  down  and  help  out  Riggs.  It'll  be 
some  story." 

"It  may  be  the  big  line  for  the  second  mail," 
suggests  Brown,  brightening  up.  "I'll  write  that 
head  myself.    I'll  .   .  ." 

"Go  and  start  something.  Get  out  pi  here  while 
I  read  my  mail.    Scat !"  „^^<"  -       '\ 

The  incident  is  closed.  The  day  has  started 
right.  Both  the  Old  Man  and  Brown,  stimulated 
by  their  tiff  and  reconciliation,  plunge  into  work 
with  vim  and  zest.  An  hour  later,  the  Old  Man, 
having  run  through  his  mail,  clipped  out  three 
suggestions  for  editorials,  delivered  various  orders 
to  the  composing  room  and  elsewhere,  telegraphed 
instructions  to  New  York  and  Washington  corre- 
spondents, and  disposed  of  a  politician  concerned 
about  the  "injudicious  policy  of  our  leading  after- 
noon paper,"  strolls  into  the  news-room  for  a  look 
around.  Brown's  razor  back  is  bent  over  a  mass 
of  proofs. 

"Don't  strain  your  eyes,  my  boy,"  says  the  Old 
Man,  pausing  beside  him ;  "you  need  a  better  light 
here." 


DEADiJNBfS'    •'"-"'••- [102] 

He  passes  on,  past  the  copy-readers,  crabbedly 
disposing  of  their  work,  past  the  bench-full  of 
small  boys,  who  look  demurely  downcast  as  he 
passes  and  scowl  terribly  behind  his  back,  and  on 
among  the  desks  of  the  reporters.  He  halts  at 
a  desk  in  a  corner.  The  occupant  instantly  stops 
typewriting,  and  rises. 

"How's  Fosket?"  asks  the  Old  Man.  "Were  you 
out  at  the  hospital  last  night?" 

There  is  reassurance  about  the  appendix  of 
Fosket,  and  the  reporter  is  left  to  his  work.  The 
Old  Man  wanders  on,  arriving  at  the  row  of  win- 
dows that  overlook  the  street.  In  the  street  is  the 
usual  daily  swarm  of  trucks,  taxis,  pedestrians, 
thronging  by  under  the  jagged  level  of  the  ele- 
vated railroad.  It  is  a  grim  perspective.  It  is  a 
segment  of  the  city  ridden  by  mechanisms,  ridden 
by  routine,  by  desperate  errands.  Here  at  its 
vortex  the  city  is  harsh,  dour,  fearfully  in  a  hurry. 
It  sends  up  a  voice,  an  influence,  into  this  news- 
paper office!  it  sends  up  messages  of  the  conflict, 
the  confusion,  of  its  forty-eight  nationalities  and 
its  forty-eight  thousand  ambitions.  Anything  may 
happen  here.  There  may  be  at  any  moment  an 
outbreak  of  crime  committed  in  a  blunt,  dauntless 
manner  rivaling  the  Mexican  border.  There  may 
be  accident,  swift  and  hideous.  There  may  be 
some  less  overt  but  quite  as  startling  manifesta- 
tion of  the  intricate,  violent,  dazzlingly  vital  city. 


[  103  ] DEADLINES 

The  Old  Man  sniffs  the  air,  loving  this  city  of 
his.  He  is  for  the  moment  deaf  to  what  is  behind 
his  back ;  he  is  in  an  interlude,  forgetting  his  desk 
and  all  that  is  upon  it.  He  gazes  down  critically, 
masterfully,  with  an  appearance  of  premonition, 
into  the  familiar  street.  And  there  is  about  him 
almost  a  kind  of  majesty,  because  of  his  power 
of  impressing  himself  upon  this  multitude,  and 
because  of  the  air  of  the  patrician  that  hangs 
always  about  him. 

For  the  Old  Man  was  not  born  of  this  swarm. 
He  was  thrust  into  his  present  environment  and 
his  present  tasks,  partly  by  destiny,  partly  by  his 
own  complex  nature. 

His  full  name  (only  a  few  of  us  know  this)  is 
Norbert  William  DeLancy  Thain.  He  signs  him- 
self "N.  W.  Thain." 

[Ill] 

A  FEW  years  ago  a  dispatch  announced  the 
death  of  a  wealthy  maiden  lady  named 
Thain.  She  was  said  to  be  "almost  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  a  distinguished  eastern  family."  There 
were  hints  about  rich  acres  on  Long  Island,  about 
libraries  full  of  old  masters,  and  the  like.  Soon 
after  the  dispatch  was  published  the  Old  Man  was 
absent  for  a  few  days,  and  it  was  rumored  that 
he  had  gone  east.  The  rumor  subsided  upon  his 
return,  and  the  very,  very  faint  conjecture  that 
he  was  a  connection  of  the  baronial  Miss  Thain 
was  speedily  forgotten. 


DEADLINES [i04j 

But  the  fact,  which  a  few  of  us  know,  is  that 
the  Old  Man  was  her  brother.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
fill  in  the  outlines  of  the  story.  Indeed,  the  Old 
Man,  in  his  rare  moments  of  reminiscence,  has 
supplied  all  that  was  needed. 

Why,  then,  is  he  not  at  this  moment  living 
as  a  country  gentleman  on  Long  Island,  buying 
and  selling  racing  stables,  and  occasionally  scaring 
Wall  street  into  fits,  instead  of  inviting  soul 
devastation  by  managing  a  newspaper?  The 
answer  revolves  around  a  mystery  not  peculiar 
to  The  Mysterious  Profession,  but  common  to  all ; 
the  mystery  of  a  young  man's  ambition,  the 
thing  that  "sends  them  into  it."  Norbert  William 
DeLancy  Thain  did  not  wish  to  be  a  country 
gentleman.  He  did  want  to  be  a  newspaper  man. 
Perhaps  he  wanted  as  well  to  be  a  writer — a 
novelist  or  a  poet.  We  do  not  know  this.  In  these 
days  he  speaks  with  profound  disdain  of  novelists 
and  poets.  But  he  himself  has  told  us  that  he 
was  determined  to  be  a  newspaper  man.  He — yes, 
I  am  sure  he  said  this — he  "gave  up  everything 
for  it."  So  we  have  a  pretty  reliable  picture  of 
him  engaging  in  a  stormy  argument  with  his 
father,  then  declaring  his  independence  and  join- 
ing the  motley  company,  half  genius  and  half 
charlatan,  then  common  along  Park  Row.  He  has 
told  us  about  Park  Row,  with  the  slight  hyperbole 
that  tinges  his  reminiscences.  Sometimes  he  has 
declared  that  he  belonged  to  a   golden   age  of 


[105] DEADLINES 

journalism,  when  enterprise  reached  its  zenith, 
and  the  pursuit  of  a  "beat"  recked  no  cost,  and 
that  of  this  golden  age  he  himself  was  one  of 
the  most  luminous  figures.  At  other  times  he  has 
satirized  both  Park  Row  and  his  younger  self, 
and  assured  us  that  we  ourselves  belonged  to  "the 
greatest  newspaper  in  history."  But  it  remains 
certain  that  he  was  a  reporter  in  New  York,  and 
eventually  a  writer  much  prized.  Was  it  not  he 
who  as  a  mere  boy  "covered"  the  rush  to  settle 
Oklahoma,  the  great  Chicago  railway  strike,  and 
the  Santiago  campaign?  It  was.  He  has  told  us 
so,  and  has  shown  us  the  scar  on  his  neck  made 
by  a  Spanish  bullet.  The  Old  Man  has  given  us 
details  of  these  things  during  the  long  hours  of 
waiting  for  a  court  verdict  or  a  strike  settlement. 
Expansive  hours,  these,  when  more  than  one 
department  chief  ^reminisced,"  and  we  youngsters 
hung  about,  fascinated. 

But  there  is^  very  little  to  show  at  what  period 
the  Old  Man  gave  up  star  reporting  for  desk  work, 
or  to  tell  us  why  he  did  it.  We  can  only  surmise ; 
we  can  only  apply  to  his  case  the  things  that 
govern  most  newspaper  careers  and  assume  that, 
having  committed  himself  to  the  hazards  of  the 
profession,  he  was  forced  to  accept  his  destiny. 
This  destiny  usually  assumes  one  of  two  forms: 
either  the  acceptance  of  high  responsibility, 
together   with    crushing   worry    and    deadening 


DEADLINES  [io6] 

routine,  or  a  decadence  from  the  position  of  Star 
to  one  of  shabby  obscurity.  It  was  impossible 
for  a  man  of  the  Old  Man's  temper  to  take  the 
slide  to  the  level  of  "once  a  great  reporter."  One 
day  it  became  inevitable  for  him  to  be  an  execu- 
tive and  thus  to  exert  the  acuteness,  the  immense 
energy,  the  professional  wisdom,  that  had  come 
with  his  years. 

But  on  that  day,  mind  you,  he  laid  aside  forever 
the  delight  of  "seeing  himself  in  print."  He  for- 
feited his  literary  creative  powers.  He  parted 
with  a  section  of  his  individuality.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  say  that  his  imaginative  gifts  now  figure 
on  every  page  of  the  paper,  that  he  "expresses 
himself  through  others,"  and  so  on.  All  very  well, 
but  every  time  such  words  are  spoken  of  a  man 
bom  a  literary  artist,  they  utter  a  requiem.  The 
funeral  of  the  Old  Man  as  a  writer  has  now  been 
held  so  often  that  every  one  supposes  him  to  be 
used  to  it.  But  is  he?  Does  not  there  persist  in 
him,  will  there  not  persist  to  his  death  day,  the 
strange,  bitter-sweet  egoism  that  vdll  not  be 
satisfied  without  "seeing  one's-self  in  print"? 

Sometimes — rarely — ^the  Old  Man  dictates  an 
editorial,  or  perhaps  a  few  lines  of  flourish  at  the 
beginning  of  an  important  news  story.  There  is 
in  these  fragments  a  deadly  acid  quality,  or  more 
often  a  felicitous  turn  of  phrase,  that  shows  what 
power  still  smolders  in  the  Old  Man's  spirit.  It 
is  revealed  further  by  his  treatment  of  us,  by  his 


[107] DEADLINES 

disdain  for  crude,  hackneyed  expression,  by  his 
delight  in  a  piece  of  writing  that  has  original 
color,  by  his  tenderness  toward  the  sensitive 
gropers  among  us. 

He  comes  out  of  his  room  sometimes,  grasping 
the  latest  issue  in  both  hands,  and  with  his  eyes 
blazing. 

"Who  wrote  this?"  he  demands.     "By  G , 

it's  good!" 

And  he  returns  to  his  lair,  satisfied  with  the 
outburst,  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his 
question. 

Or  it  may  be  that  he  finds  in  a  rival  paper  a 
story  that  rises  above  mediocrity,  that  has  a  note 
of  "the  real  thing."  He  will  rave  for  half  an  hour 
about  the  ability  of  this  anonymous  literary  rival. 
And  we  hang  our  heads. 

Meantime,  although  it  is  so  plain  that  the  Old 
Man  is  at  heart  an  artist,  and  that  he  loves 
excellent  writing  with  the  consuming  love  others 
have  for  music,  we  never  think  of  him  as  a  writer 
at  all;  that  is,  we  know  what  he  could  do,  but 
we  never  expect  him  to  do  it.  There  he  is  in  his 
niche,  a  huge  and  conspicuous  niche,  with  a  sign 
over  him  "Executive."  Oh,  yes,  he  could  and  did 
do  things;  he  was  an  artist  once;  but  not  now. 
Now  he  is  the  Boss — a  being  of  whom  to  ask 
questions  or  from  whom  to  receive  maledictions, 
a  being  who  controls  pay-rolls.     He  is  stage- 


DEADLINES ijm 

director  and  prompter.    Someone  else  speaks  the 
parts  and  receives  the  curtain  calls. 
All  of  this  constitutes  a  sort  of  tragedy. 

[IV] 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Old  Man  has 
a  plural  nature.  "Dual"  seems  scarcely  to  be 
the  word. 

Two  of  his  selves  are  the  artist  and  the 
executive.  The  executive,  when  that  phase  of 
DeLancy  Thain's  life  opened,  rose  into  preponder- 
ance over  the  artist  very  easily ;  and  as  time  went 
on  his  increasing  virility  and  love  of  conflict 
demanded  more  and  more  a  tempestuous  field. 
Perhaps  from  the  first  he  instinctively  sought 
trouble,  as  the  saying  is.  It  is  certain  that  in  this 
city  which  I  have  characterized  as  intricate  and 
violent  he  is  at  home.  The  fact,  to  some  extent, 
mitigates  the  tragedy  of  the  suppressed  artist. 

A  newspaper  with  the  breath  of  life  in  it  is 
ever  on  the  offensive.  Its  hates  stream  out  to 
"Little  Hell,"  "The  Valley,"  and  the  Gashouse 
District,"  breathing  challenge  to  bad  men  where- 
ever  they  hide.  Even  if  there  be  no  battle  for 
the  time  being  with  crooks  and  gangsters  there 
is  conflict  with  somebody.  To  be  the  leader  in 
this  amiable  business  of  making  enemies  requires 
a  big  fist  and  a  blunt  answer.  It  involves  the 
Old  Man  from  time  to  time  in  clashes — usually 
verbal — with  uncouth  persons  in  whom  somehow 


fio9] DEADLINES 


or  other  there  was  born  a  devil  both  fierce  and 
canny.  This  is  no  place  for  a  lily-fingered,  lisping 
individual.  The  Old  Man  has  to  be  prepared,  and 
is,  to  oppose  to  brutal,  foul  speech  a  resistance 
quite  as  brutal,  though  perhaps  not  as  foul.  He 
casts  off,  almost  daily,  his  hereditary  cloak  of  the 
patrician  and  "mixes  it"  with  jail-bird  sons  of 
jail-birds.  He  is  a  match — he  who  might  have 
spent  his  afternoons  at  tea  dances  at  the  Ritz- 
Carleton — for  any  of  the  products  of  this  city  that 
includes  in  its  composite  soul  the  low  instincts 
of  a  dozen  races. 

When  his  telephone  bell  rings  there  may  come 
to  him  the  voice  of  a  six-foot  gangster  announcing, 

"You ,  I'm  comin*  around  there  today 

to  beat  your  block  off." 

And  the  Old  Man  must  be  prepared  to  answer 
the  gangster  at  once,  and  not  in  French,  either. 

There  are  conflicts  of  a  more  diplomatic  sort; 
political  struggles,  or  controversies  involving  even 
women  and  scholars.  The  Old  Man  has  mastered 
the  weapons  of  these  as  well.  The  point  with  him 
is,  never  to  yield.  On  no  account  does  the  Old  Man 
give  ground.  There  are  times  when  it  suits  him 
to  revert  to  the  patrician,  and  then  it  is  a 
delightful  experience  to  hear  him  suavely,  perhaps 
ironically,  dispose  of  the  opposition.  It  is  even 
more  delicious  to  see  him  plume  himself  after  the 
encounter;  to  observe  how  his  whole  personality 
glistens  with  the  consciousness  that  neither  in 
breeding  nor  in  intellect  does  he  concede  an  atom 


DEADLINES  [noi 

to  these  persons  who  speak  with  the  accents  of 
Harvard  and  of  Vassar. 

He  is  equipped,  too,  with  every  art  needed  to 
cope  with  the  disputes  that  come  up  in  the  office. 
To  us  he  is  capable  of  being  blunt  or  suave,  per- 
suasive or  sarcastic,  as  the  nature  of  the  tangle 
requires.  He  is  death  upon  the  frequent  situation 
in  which  two  minor  executives  come  to  him  with 
"I  can't  go  on  working  here  if  Wade  does,"  and 
vice  versa.  He  merely  says :  "You  may  both  quit, 
then."  Equally  fatal  is  he  to  the  youth  who  com- 
plains that  "credit"  is  being  subtracted  from  him. 
The  Old  Man  sweetly  and  in  the  purest  English 
subtracts  the  rest  of  the  credit. 

It  is  we,  of  course,  who  see  the  Old  Man  in  all 
his  moods,  who  have  learned  that  his  nature  is 
really  plural.  We  see  him  morose,  joyous,  tender, 
abusive,  frivolous,  weary.  We  see  him  uplifted  in 
one  of  those  gorgeous  moments  of  great  news 
which  come  so  rarely;  and  we  see  him  grimly 
assailed  by  routine,  bored  to  death,  but  hanging 
on.  Sometimes  he  suggests  to  us  a  hollow,  hope- 
less soul,  sucked  dry  of  enthusiasm  or  initiative. 
An  hour  later,  and  he  may  be  leading  us  with  the 
fury  of  a  youth ;  or,  coatless  at  the  "stone,"  sing- 
ing over  his  proofs  and  slapping  printers  on  the 
back. 

There  are  days  when  he  seems  to  hate  us  all. 
There  are  days  when  his  affection  enfolds  us  like 
sunshine. 


till] DEADLINES 

He  is  brief  with  the  Cub,  sardonic  with  Sinful 
Goode,  amiable  and  savage  by  turns  with  the  Star, 
majestic  with  the  Drunkard,  and  strictly  on  his 
good  behavior  with  Josslyn.  There  must  be  a 
story  about  his  relations  with  Josslyn,  "the  old- 
timer."  We  shall  have  to  look  into  it  before  we 
finish. 

[V] 

IN  this  haphazard  world  of  ours,  so  easily  upset 
by  a  word,  by  a  false  touch  or  an  unprofessional 
act,  the  Old  Man  is  the  symbol  of  permanence. 
That  powerful  body  seems  never  to  weaken,  that 
mind  returns  every  morning  to  the  challenge,  to 
the  battle,  to  the  semi-paternal  care  of  us  all. 

Ten  years  hence,  how  will  it  be?  Surely  by 
that  time  he  will  have  begun  to  weaken.  And 
with  what  memories  can  he  mitigate  the  distress 
of  age.  To  what  can  he  point  with  the  words,  "I 
made  this"?  For  the  record  of  his  days  will  be 
the  hundreds  of  trivial  thoughts  and  motions 
spent  upon  "getting  out  the  paper" ;  the  lavishing 
of  immense  zeal  upon  an  evanescent  product,  for- 
gotten as  soon  as  made. 

Perhaps,  when  the  false  fires  are  quenched, 
there  will  be  nothing  for  him  to  rejoice  over — 
nothing  but  us.  There  will  remain  among  the 
ashes  of  his  public  and  his  enterprises  only  us, 
his  children,  his  disciples.  Perhaps  we  shall  have 
become,  in  our  turn,  weighty,  authoritative  per- 


DEADLINES ni2] 

sons,  who  can  "get  out  a  paper."  He  will  have 
bequeathed  his  life  to  us,  and  we  shall  bequeath 
it  again  to  vivid  youths  like  the  one  pictured  in 
the  Old  Man's  photograph. 


[113] 


DEADLINES 


[VIII] 
The  Poet 


[I] 

ENTLEMEN,  should  you  meet  a 

stalwart    person    walking    the 

streets  bareheaded  and  glowing 

with  mysterious  ecstasy,  will  you 

kindly    bring   him    back   to   the 

office?  That  is  our  Poet. 

The  Old  Man  would  like  to  see  him. 

It  is  a  whim  of  the  Old  Man's,  and  of  nobody 

else,  that  we  shall  employ  a  poet  to  write  critical 

articles.     An  incongruity,  surely;  what  do  you 

think?    Are  not  critics  supposed  to  be  bloodless, 

blue-nosed  persons,  pedantic,  prudent,  prim,  and 

accurate  on  the  typewriter?     And  do  they  not 

punch  clocks  faithfully?  Poets  never  punch  clocks. 

There  is  a  disposition  in  our  office,  however,  to 

forgive  the  Old  Man  his  eccentricity ;  to  love  him 

the  more  because  he  employs  The  Poet.    Beyond 

doubt,  the  presence  of  The  Poet  lends  color  to 

this  pasture  wherein  we  dig  post-holes  and  hunt 


DEADLINES  [juj 

mares-nests.  It  is  certain  that  our  days  would  be 
gloomier  were  it  not  for  the  leisurely,  genial, 
enigmatic  being  who  moves  about  among  the 
shades.  To  find  him  at  one's  elbow,  quite  unex- 
pectedly, furnishes  a  moment  of  novelty  and  of 
warmth.  To  hear  him  boom:  "Some  first  page 
today — man,  that's  journalism!"  is  almost  as 
forceful  praise  as  a  note  from  the  Owner.  Besides 
this,  it  does  us  good  to  gather  around  his  desk  and 
hear  him  talk.  There  is  nearly  always — at  least, 
during  The  Poet's  variable  "office  hours,"  there  is 
usually  a  knot  of  young  reporters  listening  to  his 
wisdom.  And  it  sometimes  makes  the  Old  Man 
nervous  when  he  comes  in  and  finds  work  at  a 
standstill.  But  the  Old  Man  knows  he  is  chiefly 
to  blame,  so  he  smiles  secretly  and  goes  away. 

The  Old  Man  is  wont  to  boast:  "Fve  managed 
to  keep  that  man  on  my  staff  for  five  years  without 
a  break." 

A  rightful  boast.  It  is  no  joke  to  keep  a  poet 
anywhere. 

[11] 
TLTE  has  been  here  five  years.  He  has  been 
•*•  ^  happy,  we  think.  As  for  us,  we  have  seen 
poems  born.  We  have  watched  The  Poet  at  his 
window,  lounging  deep  in  his  chair,  his  powerful 
hands  knotted,  his  dark,  rugged  face  locked  in  a 
solemn  dream.  The  poems  themselves  have  been 
on  exhibition  at  various  stages :  as  pencilled  yellow 
slips,  as  clean  sheets  re-typed  for  the  printer,  as 


ni5j DEADLINES 

long  rolls  of  galley-proofs.  We  have  seen  poems 
fresh  from  the  shell,  shivering  in  a  philistine 
world;  and  we  have  seen  them  again,  months 
later,  fricaseed  in  books,  or  set  forth  with  pro- 
fessorial comment,  or  translated  into  French  and 
Italian  and  Spanish.  All  this  makes  The  Poet 
more  incongruous  than  ever.  Who  is  he,  after  all? 
A  great  man,  or  only  one  of  us?  One  cannot 
doubt  that  he  travels  in  an  orbit  that  often  takes 
him  very  far  away,  and  that  at  his  perihelion  he 
is  quite  beyond  our  vision.  Yet  he  returns  as 
regularly  as  he  goes,  and  when  he  is  again  within 
our  range,  and  when  the  flight  of  gaudy  and 
tawdry  events  does  not  engross  us  too  much,  he 
is  as  actual  as  Barlow,  and  as  vivid  as  The  Star. 
In  these  returns  to  earth  he  shares  the  office 
dramas.  He  is  one  of  the  first  to  be  told  of  a 
big  scoop,  a  grievous  quarrel,  or  a  new  baby.  He 
is  interested  in  the  people  of  the  news-room ;  and 
he  has  periods  of  absorption  in  news  itself. 

Sitting  in  his  deep  old  chair  he  may  preach  to 
us  like  this : 

"You  and  I  are  artists ;  you  as  much  as  I.  They 
call  newspaper  work  a  trade,  or  a  profession. 
More  often  it  is  an  art.  ...  Besides  writing, 
there  is  staging  the  effect.  Dramatists  do  that; 
so  do  newspaper  men.  Dramatists  set  a  stage; 
newspaper  men,  dealing  with  a  great  event,  give 
a  setting  of  type  and  a  proper  bally-hoo.  .  .  .  The 
novelist  has  his  'control,' — character ;  the  painter 


DEADLINES niej 

has  his — beauty.  The  newspaperman  has  his 
*contror — news.  What  is  news?  It  is  what  inter- 
ests everybody.  How  do  we  know  it  interests 
everybody?   Why,  we  simply  know  .  .  ."  etc.,  etc. 

[HI] 

OR  IN  the  cigar  store  he  may  suddenly  appear 
among  the  clouds  of  smoke,  with  a  long, 
loose-rolled  stogie  in  his  lips,  and  argue  about  the 
current  murder  trial.  And  then,  quite  as  though 
he  were  no  more  august  than  the  Cub,  he  may 
say:  "Who's  for  a  cup  of  Java?" 

Or  on  an  election  night  he  may  saunter  in 
between  the  littered  desks  and  inquire:  "How*s 
Diamond  Joe  running?" 

But  for  all  this,  we  know  that  he  is  an  extrane- 
ous spirit,  who  dwells  among  us,  yet  apart.  He 
travels  in  mysterious  spaces  beyond  our  tired 
vision.  He  is  the  office  mystery,  just  as  the 
Drunkard  is  its  bad  boy,  and  Josslyn  its  Sir  Philip 
Sidney.  He  has  another  life  somewhere;  perhaps 
in  his  country  cottage,  where  through  an  attic 
window  he  drinks  star-light.  We  can't  tell  just 
why  the  world  makes  so  much  of  him.  Some  of 
us  shake  our  heads  over  his  poetry,  and  say  "I 
can't  make  sense  of  it."  Or  we  ask  The  Poet  what 
it  means,  and  he  replies,  "God  knows." 

Can't  we  get  at  our  mystery  somehow,  can't 
we  solve  him? 


[117] DEADLINES 

Suppose  that  we  step  outside  of  the  news-room, 
just  for  once,  and  follow  him  to  the  antipodes; 
to  the  other  side  of  the  orbit.  Let's  assemble 
the  crowd;  make  it  a  night  off.  Tomorrow  the 
news-room  again,  the  detestable  clock,  the  insane 
telephones,  the  petty  conflicts.  Tonight,  The  Poet. 

CIV] 

"Pl'GHT  steps  down  from  the  level  of  the  glossy 
•*-'  boulevard.  Two  steps  to  the  right  into  the 
restaurant  with  red  chairs  and  green  walls.  This 
is  the  place.  The  red  chairs  stand  in  semi-circles 
before  a  fire-place,  and  on  the  mantel-shelf  there 
are  plaster  statuettes,  and  Quimper  plates,  and 
this  and  that.  All  very  chic.  It  is  not  a  restaurant 
this  evening;  it  is  a  setting  for  The  Poet.  But 
what  a  setting!  Think  of  him  among  the  statu- 
ettes and  the  tall  candles,  the  cages  of  imitation 
parrots,  the  walls  frescoed  with  pink  flower- 
baskets.  Our  poet!  May  he  step  softly  amid 
this  porcelain. 

The  red  chairs  gradually  fill  up.  From  the 
boulevard  swept  by  snow  squalls  and  by  streaks 
of  motor-lights  people  are  blowing  in.  We,  the 
news-room  "crowd,"  blow  in  and  are  dumfounded 
to  find  there  are  no  seats  for  us.  The  place  is 
packed.  "Everybody"  is  here:  The  cognoscenti, 
and  the  literati,  and  the  younger  intellectuals  and 
the  neo-Bohemians  and  the  academics,  and  the 


DEADLINES [iisi 

iconoclasts  and  the  abracadabrists.  Everybody 
who  writes,  or  writes  about  writings  or  knows 
people  who  talk  about  those  who  write  about 
writing.  The  serene  small  editress  of  a  magazine 
enters,  and  five  young  poets  jump  up  to  offer  her 
their  places.  A  literary  critic  appears  in  the  door- 
way, leading  an  abashed-looking  trio  of  suburban 
friends.  In  a  corner  glowers  a  group  of  long- 
haired youths  with  horn  spectacles  and  scornful 
conversation.  An  old  man,  white  bearded,  is 
squeezed  between  two  bobbed-haired  screechers. 
Sophomores  and  sub-debs  arrive,  clutching  the 
poet's  poems  conspicuously.  Professors  prowl  the 
aisles.  We,  the  news-room  crowd,  flatten  our- 
selves against  the  wall.  The  hubble-bubble  rises 
around  us. 

"That's  So-and-so.  I  met  him  at  the  Midland 
Authors'  last  feed." 

"Isn't  he  dear?    I  wonder  who  that  ..." 
"What  do  you  s'pose  he'll  read  tonight?" 
"Did  you  see  my  villanelle  in  the  Scat-book?" 
"Isn't  it  fearfully  hawt  by  this  fire?" 
"I  wonder  if  it  would  be  a  scandal  if  I  smoked 
a  teeny  cigarette." 

There  is  a  hush  near  the  door;  a  craning  of 
necks ;  a  flurry  of  snow  as  the  door  opens.  There 
is  blown  in — The  Poet. 

He  is  muffled  to  the  eyes  and  he  is  wearing, 
tonight,  his  black  rain-proof  cap,  which  is  so  ugly 
that  he  idolizes  it.    He  steps  forward  and  beams. 


tii9]  DEADLINES 

A  half  dozen  people  rise  from  their  seats  and 
stretch  out  hands  in  vain.  The  Poet  is  unbutton- 
ing the  tall  collar  of  his  ulster.  He  is  as  pleased 
as  Punch  over  the  warmth  of  affection  that  sweeps 
toward  him ;  but  he  does  not  act  like  a  man  receiv- 
ing homage.  He  is  just  the  same  as  when  he 
strolls  into  the  cigar-store  and  says  "Hello,  fel- 
lows." There  is  no  bunk  about  The  Poet.  We  see 
now  that  he  is  the  same  old  kid.  This  is  whole- 
some; we  were  beginning  to  be  affected  by  the 
mawkish  worship  of  the  neo-Bohemians  and  poet- 
asters. He  sees  us  now,  and  we  call  to  him 
carelessly,  "Hello;  how  are  yu?" 

Now  he  picks  his  way  to  his  table  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  where  priestesses  have  set  up  a  sort 
of  altar  for  him,  lit  with  candles,  very  pretty. 
But  it  won't  do.  Put  out  the  candles,  please,  and 
will  somebody  open  a  window? 

Well,  now  it  seems  everything  is  ready. 

[V] 

THE  POET  stands  against  a  background  of 
ochre  flames,  statuettes,  and  bon-bon  boxes, 
before  the  dinky  table  upon  which  are  piled  his 
books,  with  shreds  of  newspaper  marking  the 
selected  poems.  He  faces  the  semi-circle  of  list- 
eners, swinging  his  head  about  so  that  his  gaze 
takes  in  everybody.  He  is  in  no  hurry  to  begin. 
Quizzical  thoughts  seem  to  stir  his  lips ;  his  ashen- 
grey  eyes,  with  their  bold,  black  pupils,  twinkle 


DEADLINES [mj 

a  little  with  the  recognition  of  people,  or  perhaps 
with  some  inward  whimsy.  His  cragged  chin  lifts 
in  a  curious  gesture  that  throws  back  his  whole 
head;  that  head,  clothed  in  its  cloak  of  shining 
silvered  hair,  black  at  the  roots,  which  is — well, 
the  word  is  "leonine/*  But  what  an  amiable  lion 
it  is !  A  lion  well-fed  and  purring,  it  seems ;  but 
no  moving-picture  lion,  this;  no  exhibition  lion; 
sodden  with  leisure.  This  is  a  capricious  spirit, 
capable  of  stern  flashes  from  under  his  shaggy- 
grey  brows,  and  of  great  abstract  rages.  As  the 
eyelids  droop  over  his  deep  eyes,  and  as  his  lips 
work,  it  is  anybody's  guess  what  he  will  say,  or 
read.  Will  his  words  scorch  the  flower-baskets 
off  the  green  walls?  Will  they  rock  the  statuettes 
upon  their  pedestals? 

There  is  silence  now.  The  more  distinguished 
auditors  sit  with  folded  arms,  breathless.  We  of 
the  news-room,  nobodies  —  merely  the  poet's 
friends — shuffle  our  feet  where  we  stand. 

The  Poet  reads. 

It  is  a  voice  familiar  enough,  yet  charged  with 
a  new  element.  It  is  a  deep  voice,  deliberate, 
casual,  rich  with  earth-tones.  It  comes  as  though 
some  organist  were  idly  exploring  the  pedals. 
What  is  the  voice  saying?  Mysteries.  And  grad- 
ually there  grows  upon  us  news-room  visitors  a 
sense  of  a  spell,  of  being  quaintly  lost.  The  figure 
before  us,  with  its  luxurious  bangs  of  grey  hair, 
with  the  military  shoulders  and  the  careless  drab 


[121] DEADLINES 

clothes,  is  familiar.  Yet  it  is  now  remote,  inex- 
plicable. Well,  there  is  something  we  have 
overlooked.  We  have  seen  him  write,  but  we  never 
have  heard  him  read.  We  have  thumbed  over  his 
poems,  and  asked  him  questions  about  them,  and 
he  has  shown  them  to  us  and  we  have  given  him 

encouraging  grins,  but boys,  we  never 

fathomed  him  at  all.  We  are  fascinated,  every 
one  of  us,  by  this  public  Poet  whom  we  did  not 
know.  Nobody  in  the  room  is  staring  at  him 
harder  than  we.  He  is  changing  before  our  eyes. 
The  companionable  chuckle  with  which  he  greets 
us  is  gone.  He  has  a  stern,  white  look  that 
abashes  us.  Concentration  is  cutting  that  familiar 
face  into  hollows.  The  black  pupils  blot  out  the 
grey  of  his  eyes ;  deep,  deep  thought  and  the  mem- 
ory of  creative  hours  veil  the  black.  And  the 
voice,  striking  chords  that  do  not  dwell  in  "Good 
morning''  and  "Good  night,"  the  voice  is  uttering 
phrases  that  we  once  saw  written,  that  we  once 
ticketed  as  "good  stuff" — and  let  them  go. 

Comrades,  we  never  fathomed  him.  There  is 
something  else  here,  and  we  can't  quite  describe 
it.  Those  phrases — whence  did  they  come,  and 
whither  bound?  They  are  irradiated  and  clari- 
fied by  his  voice.  By  his  voice  those  queer  masses 
of  printing  are  explained.  The  cubes  of  type  melt 
together,  the  eruptions  of  strange,  "unpoetic" 
words  acquire  a  melody.  And  those  maimed  sen- 
tences  that   he    never   chose   to  finish,  those 


DEADLINES vm^ 

implicatory  phrases,  like  great  thumb-marks- 
complete,  complete.  His  voice  is  trying  to  tell 
us — us,  his  news-room  comrades — what  he  felt 
months  ago,  when  all  this  was  written.  Up  there 
to  his  eyrie  above  the  skyscrapers,  and  out  into 
his  starlit  nights  in  the  corn-fields,  and  abroad 
on  his  long  treks  across  the  deserts — ^that  is 
where  he  is  trying  to  take  us.  But  we  can  follow 
only  a  little  way ;  we,  whose  desks  are  next  to  his. 

He  reads;  pauses;  reads  again.  He  dips  into 
this  book  and  that.  Now  we  are  in  the  city,  tor- 
tured and  deafened  by  it.  Now  we  are  skimming 
toward  the  "sun-burnt  west,"  among  purple 
rocks  and  powdered  trails  and  the  bones  of  trav- 
lers.  Now  we  are  on  slopes  of  woodland ;  and  now 
the  baby  moon  sails  and  sails  in  the  Indian  west, 
for  us.  And  now  we  are  once  more  in  the  city, 
where  broken,  work-torn  figures  are  brought  to 
our  feet  to  speak  in  their  horrible,  hopeless  jargon 
that  we  may  pity  them.  The  voice  of  The  Poet 
searches,  searches  among  the  meshes  of  the 
poems.  It  comes  slow,  deep  and  tender ;  it  comes 
furious,  menacing,  sardonic.  We  are  altogether 
swept  away  from  the  city's  rigmarole,  from  our 
normal  moods,  from  all  consciousness  of  the  chic 
little  restaurant.  We  are  sharing  The  Poet's  long- 
seeing  fearless  vision;  we  are  learning  what  his 
world  is. 

Very  distant  at  last,  the  news-room,  its  clamors 
and  clankings,  the  babel  of  nervous  voices,  the 


[123  3 DEADLINES 

flutter  of  printed  sheets.  But  from  this  distance, 
where  The  Poet  dwells,  we  regard  the  news-room 
in  a  new  light.  We  share  The  Poet's  grand  disdain 
for  successes,  and  his  pity  for  failures.  We  see 
ourselves  as  part  of  an  immense  and  tragic  pro- 
cession, in  which,  despite  its  shabby  ranks  and 
its  numerous  stragglers,  we  are  proud  to  march. 
And  when  The  Poet  has  finished,  we  walk  home 
in  the  peaceful  night,  convinced  of  the  majesty  of 
ourselves. 

[VI] 

npOMORROW  morning,  if  you  see  us  glumly 
•*•      clipping,  writing  and  correcting,  and  if  we 
seem  unchanged,  you  must  still  believe  us  to  be 
under  The  Poet's  spell. 

And  if  you  meet  The  Poet  himself  on  the  street, 
with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  roof-tops  and  his  very 
footsteps  proclaiming  his  indifference  to  time  and 
space,  will  you  please  bring  him  back  to  the  office? 
The  Old  Man  wants  him. 
Besides,  he  belongs  here. 


11251 


DEADLINES 


The  Ghost 


[I] 


»    — n  T  is  mid-summer,  and  the  door  of 

■  the  cigar  store  stands  open,  so 
I  that  we  on  the  benches  have  a 

■  close  view  of  passers-by.     They 
B  cross  the  path  of  our  vision,  exist 

==j|  for  a  moment,  and  vanish.  It  is 
the  world ;  it  is  humanity  brought  near  to  us  and 
seeming,  when  thus  foreshortened,  ill  worth  the 
beholding. 

This  time  it  is  the  news  editor,  the  Star,  Camp- 
bell and  I  who  muse,  gossip,  and  smoke.  Campbell 
is  a  man  whom  I  ought  to  have  introduced  before. 
He  is  a  person  of  some  authority  and  of  great  lore 
in  recondite  questions  like  the  allotment  of  edi- 
torial space  and  the  timing  of  editions.  Privately, 
he  is  a  philosopher;  he  goes  home  to  live  among 
tall  ghosts  of  thought,  which  solace  him  for  the 
brutal  facts  to  which  his  working  life  is  devoted. 
The  Star  loves  to  awaken  this  private  passion  and 


DEADLINES  i^&j 

see  it  live,  quaintly,  amid  the  architecture  of  the 
working  day. 

So  the  Star  and  Campbell,  here  in  the  cigar 
store,  are  carrying  on  a  metaphysical  conversa- 
tion, far  over  the  heads  of  the  new^s  editor  and 
myself.  I  hear  phrases  like  "Nietsche!  An 
inverted  Baptist" ;  "No  doubt  Kant  was  the  under- 
lying cause  of  the  French  revolution,"  and  "The 
theory  that  man  is  a  time-binding  animal  .  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  the  news  editor  leans  forward,  watches 
the  passing  swarm  intently,  and  exclaims : 

"Old  Slater!" 

Campbell  looks,  and  nods. 

For  my  part,  I  have  seen  only  a  disappearing 
bit  of  bent  shoulder,  and  a  wisp  of  grey  hair. 
They  are  gone. 

[11] 

T  UCKY  he  didn't  look  in  and  see  me,"  says  the 
'■^  news  editor.  "By  golly,  I  dread  the  sight 
of  the  man.  Don't  know  exactly  why,  either,  for 
it's  not  a  question  of  his  asking  me  for  a  job.  He's 

long  past  that,  and  he  knows  it Maybe  I 

hate  the  thought  of  a  'touch,'  though.  Lord  knows, 
he's  about  past  that,  too.  I  fancy  he'll  never  show 
his  poor  old  phiz  in  our  office  again.  Instead  of 
that, — well,  it's  a  curious  thing,  but  he's  present, 
just  the  same.    He  haunts  us." 

"In  what  way?"  I  inquire  with  a  yawn. 

"Oh,  it's  no  ghost  story;  not  exactly.    It  isn't 


ti27] DEADLINES 

that  his  shade  inhabits  dark  corners  on  late 
watches.  This  is  a  plain,  businesslike  Chamber 
of  Commerce  sort  of  haunting,  that  consists  of 
recommendations.  You  don't  think  a  fellow  can 
haunt  an  office  by  means  of  recommendations ;  or, 
rather,  by  requests  for  recommendations?  Try 
my  job  once.  Notice  the  letters  I  get  from  snappy 
employment  managers  of  stores,  packing  houses, 
railroads,  and  so  on.  Neat  letters,  with  your 
name  sticking  through  those  tissue-covered  holes 
in  the  envelopes,  and  a  stamped  return  envelope. 
All  very  businesslike.  The  form  generally  reads : 
*You  will  oblige  us  by  confidential  information 
about  Blank  Blank,  who  says  he  was  employed 
by  you  in  the  years  so-and-so;  please  advise 
promptly  about  his  character,  habits,  application 
to  duty;  are  you  relative  of  applicant,  would  you 
re-employ,*  and  all  that  tosh.  It's  through  these 
that  old  Slater  haunts  us,  fellows.  And  I  always 
write  cheerfully  in  the  forms  that  he  was  an  A-1 
newspaper-man,  and  is  a  guy  perfectly  sober  and 
industrious.  I  guess  I  do  this  so  as  to  lay  the 
ghost ;  the  ghost  of  his  long,  sad,  grey  face." 

Campbell  takes  out  his  cigar  and  says:  "You 
can  truthfully  say  that  he  was  a  first-class  news- 
paper man.    He  was  that,  and  more." 

"Then  how  did  he  blow  up  ?"  I  inquire. 

The  news  editor  and  Campbell  start  to  reply 
simultaneously,  and  beg  pardon. 

"You  tell  it,  then." 


DEADLINES U28^i 

"No;  you  know  it  better.  You  were  here." 
So  the  narrative  falls  to  the  metaphysician,  who 
exchanges  for  this  occasion  his  delight  in  his 
illusory  world  for  a  certain  twinkling  zest  in  the 
drama  of  our  groundling  existence.  Meanwhile 
we  gaze  vacantly  upon  the  passing  figures:  Old 
men,  young  men,  brisk  persons,  crippled  persons, 
bob-haired  women,  shawl-covered  women,  beggars, 
toilers,  blackguards.  The  personality  and  the  story 
of  Old  Slater  blend  well  with  this  unlovely  parade. 

[Ill] 

"T'M  no  great  lover  of  yarns  about  old  days," 
•*•  says  Campbell.  "Telling  them  is  a  habit 
among  newspaper  men  when  they  get  to  a  certain 
age;  and  after  a  fellow  has  listened  to  all  the 
grey-backed  memoirs  I  have,  he  may  be  pardoned 
if  he  hesitates  to  add  to  them.  This  business  of 
old  Slater  has  a  special  tang,  though,  for  me. 
Probably  because  I  sort  of  respected  the  chap. 
He  was  very  well  educated ;  one  might  almost  call 
him  cultured.  We  used  to  have  some  searching 
talks  when  time  hung  heavy  during  late  watches 
and  so  on.  He  was  a  great  talker,  swaggered 
when  he  walked,  and  his  opinions  were  fearfully 
positive.  No  doubt  he  had  an  inferiority  com- 
plex." 

This  exordium  Campbell  delivers  in  the  medi- 
tative way  peculiar  to  him.  With  a  bit  more 
spirit  he  continues: 


[129] DEADLINES 

"A  great,  big,  broad-stomached,  hearty  and 
sports-loving  individual  was  Slater  when  I  first 
knew  him.  He  could  have  encircled  my  neck  with 
one  hand.  When  he  sat  at  the  copy  desk  he  didn't 
slouch,  like  so  many  of  them,  but  sat  almost  bolt 
upright,  making  marks  on  the  copy  with  a  flourish 
almost  of  disdain.  He  was  very  fast,  and  tireless. 
It  seemed  in  those  days  as  though  we  couldn't 
give  him  enough  to  do.  While  other  copy-readers 
were  sweating  blood,  and  groaning  between  their 
teeth.  Slater  would  polish  off  twice  as  much  copy 
as  they,  and  have  plenty  of  time  to  sit  with  his 
thumbs  in  his  huge  waistcoat,  gazing  around  and 
chuckling. 

"Now,  a  man  like  that  should  have  been  an 
executive,  you  may  think.  But  I  don't  know  .  .  . 
The  Old  Man's  intuition  was  very  acute.  Of 
course,  it  may  have  been  that  all  the  responsible 
jobs  were  filled.  Anyhow,  up  to  the  time  of  the 
turning  point.  Slater,  with  all  his  education,  his 
skill  and  his  enormous  professional  blah,  remained 
just  a  drudge  on  the  desk.  He  towered  among 
the  youngsters,  the  derelicts,  and  the  riff-raff 
that  we  had  at  that  time ;  he  saw  a  succession  of 
copy-readers  tackle  the  desk,  and  flunk,  either 
because  they  were  worthless  or  because  they  fell 
foul  of  our  wonderful  system.  They  looked  up  to 
Slater  in  a  way.  He  was  the  expert;  they  the 
bunglers  and  the  never-do-rights.  They  respected 
his  opinion,  too;  his  opinions  so  freely  uttered 


DEADLINES yiaoj 

on  all  questions  of  the  day.  They  fed  his  vanity. 
They  grumbled  in  his  hearing  that  he  was  a 
powerful  sight  more  competent  than  the  city 
editor  (Franklin,  I  think  it  was)  and  they  said  he 
would  be  a  four  times  better  man  at  the  stone  than 
I  was.    (I  was  doing  make-up  at  the  time.) 

"All  this  naturally  swelled  old  Slater  to  a  pon- 
derable figure  in  the  office.  He  loomed  there  at 
the  desk,  with  his  huge  head  and  his  balloon-like 
shirt  sleeves,  like  a  relic  of  some  age  of  mammoth 
newspaper  men.  He  lent  the  place  dignity.  There 
were  legends  that  he  had  held  a  big  job  under 
Dana ;  also  that  he  had  edited  a  paper  in  Nevada 
in  the  mine-rush  days.  Well,  I  knew  as  much  about 
his  history  as  anybody,  and  the  truth  was  that  he 
had  never  done  anything  more  sensational  than 
read  copy.  Just  the  same,  it  was  impossible  to 
deprive  him  of  his  halo.  Whenever  visiting  news- 
paper men,  or  former  comrades  visiting  *the  old 
shop,'  came  in,  they  always  paused  to  chat  with 
Slater.  And  half  the  time  outsiders  who  called 
to  make  requests,  or  to  register  kicks  with  the 
city  editor,  mistook  the  stately  Slater  for  'the 
desk.'  I  remember  his  austere  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  his  deep  voice :  Tardon  me ;  see  Mr.  Franklin.* 

"But  in  spite  of  all  this  auto-suggestion  that 
Slater  was  a  great  personage,  the  Old  Man  never 
fell  for  it.  There  was  always  a  reserve  in  his 
manner  toward  the  supposed  *right-hand  man  of 
Dana.'    He  never  discussed  Slater,  for  or  against; 


[131] DEADLINES 

even  exempted  him  from  the  periodical  razooing 
that  he  gave  the  copy-readers.  When  he  had  to 
call  attention  to  some  solecism  in  Slater's  work 
he  would  do  it  quietly,  but,  I  thought,  a  bit  sar- 
donically. There  was  a  curious  gravity  in  his 
manner  toward  the  big  fellow,  too,  as  though  he 
felt  he  was  more  of  an  equal  somehow — I  don't 
know " 

"Devilish  cute  person,  the  Old  Man;  devilish 
cute,"  interposes  the  Star. 

"Devilish  devilish,"  puts  in  the  news  editor. 

"A  great  judge  of  men,"  nods  Campbell. 

"And  of  women,"grins  the  Star. 

We  all  grin. 

[IV] 

"  A  S  I  have  intimated,"  continues  the  narrator, 
•^^  "the  Old  Man  rejected  all  suggestions  that 
he  give  Slater  a  responsible  job.  If  he  treated 
him  as  an  equal  it  wasn't  because  he  thought  him 
an  equal.  I  suppose  it  was  simply  because,  with 
his  peculiar  sensitiveness  to  personality,  he  felt 
that  Slater  was  of  sterner  stuff  than  the  majority, 
and  he  wasn't  quite  sure  of  the  result  should  they 
— but  no  use  speculating  on  that.  The  two  swash- 
bucklers continued  in  an  attitude  of  business-like 
politeness.  The  Old  Man  continued  to  think  that 
he,  and  no  other,  was  the  greatest  newspaper  man 
in  the  world,  and  Slater  went  on  feeding  his  own 
inferiority  complex  and  hinting  that  he  was  a  vic- 
tim of  prejudice. 


DEADLINES imj 

"So  we  trundled  along  for  some  years.  And  then 
came  the  episode  that  furnishes  the  point  of  my 
foolish  old  shop  yarn. 

"I  don't  suppose  this  gang  recalls  much  about 
the  Russo-Japanese  war,  unless  some  of  the 
ungodly  Oriental  names  we  had  to  learn  still  stick. 
We  didn't  mind  the  war — although  it  caused  a 
pernicious  lot  of  late  watches — except  for  the  fact 
that  it  caught  us  short-handed.  We  were  more 
short-handed  than  ever, — and  that  was  being  dev- 
ilish short.  Right  on  top  of  it  all,  and  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  war,  it  came  time  for  the  telegraph 
editor's  vacation.  The  Old  Man  tried  to  devil  him 
out  of  it,  but  the  telegraph  editor — it  was  Al 
Traubel,  whom  none  of  you  remember — ^he  was  a 
hard-headed  son  of  a  gun,  and  he  said  to  the  Old 
Man:  'Postpone  it?  No.  I've  shipped  my  wife 
and  kids  down  to  the  Springs ;  we've  been  looking 
forward  to  this  for  a  year.  I'll  pay  a  "sub" ;  I'll 
do  anything  else  you  say.  But  I  won't  give  up 
this  vacation  for  anybody.' 

"Now,  the  assistant  telegraph  editor  was  a 
drunkard.  Couldn't  be  depended  on  for  an  hour. 
There  was  nobody  handy  to  shift  to  the  job  which, 
just  then,  meant  a  horrible  mess  of  A.  P.,  of 
special  cable,  and  of  emergency  problems.  And 
besides — mark  this — the  censorship  in  the  Far 
East  was  veiling  and  muddling  dispatches  in  a 
way  that  passed  anything  known  before  or  since. 
A  Japanese  censor  can  beat  even  the  British. 


ti33  3 DEADLINES 

"There  sat  Slater,  huge,  hearty,  competent, 
voluble,  surrounded  by  prepossessions  that  he  was 
a  whiz  of  a  newspaper  man.  1  recall  that  the  Old 
Man  came  in,  looked  up  and  down  the  desk  as 
though  searching  for  someone  to  wipe  his  feet  on, 
and  then  said  casually,  'Slater,  take  the  telegraph 
for  a  few  days,  please/  Slater  hove  his  ample 
body  out  of  one  chair  into  another,  seized  a  wad 
of  copy-paper,  and  fell  to. 

"All  right.  It  worked  very  well.  As  make-up 
editor  I  had  a  close-up  of  the  fellows  on  the  desk ; 
and  nothing  could  have  come  to  me  cleaner,  faster, 
and  better-edited  than  the  war  stuff  as  it  came 
from  Slater.  There  had  been  no  decisive  event  for 
a  while.  Matters  were  working  up  to  the  Russian 
debacle.  There  were  plenty  of  late  watches,  how- 
ever, and  these  Slater  took,  working  four  days  a 
week  until  midnight,  and  showing  up  at  seven 
next  morning,  fresh  as  a  flower. 

"I  remember  saying  to  the  Old  Man :  *We  don't 
seem  to  miss  Al  Traubel  much,  after  all.' 

"His  reply  was :  *Never  forget  how  God  raised 
up  General  Grant.'  Which  was  sarcasm.  But 
when  the  Old  Man  is  sarcastic,  you  know,  it  often 
means  he's  pleased. 

"The  effect  of  responsibility  upon  different  men 
is  worth  watching.  Some  of  them,  such  as 
Josslyn,  it  depresses;  others  it  makes  chattery 
and  loose-elbowed.  The  effect  upon  Slater  was 
that  of  expansion.     It  seemed  even  to  increase 


DEADLINES  [i34i 

his  physical  bulk.  And  he  let  drop  more  and  more 
remarks  that  showed  how  swollen  he  was  getting. 
He  would  prate  to  the  youngsters,  after  the  First 
Final  went  in,  about  the  pride  of  the  profession ; 
how  the  profession  had  its  faults,  but  how  we 
ought  to  realize  what  a  splendid  public  service 
it  really  was.  And  mistakes  ?  It  wasn't  the  bawl- 
ing out,  he  said,  that  made  bulls  serious;  it  was 
the  departure  from  professional  standards,  which 
was  all  we  had,  our  whole  stock  in  trade,  etc.,  etc. 

"He  gave  everybody  to  understand,  did  old 
Slater,  that  if  he  made  a  shocking  blunder  he 
would  just  quit;  that's  all.  Not  from  fear,  but 
from  self -disgust. 

"And  now Well,  I'll  spare  you  the 

fiction  flourishes,  such  as  *a  day  came,'  and  all 
that.  What  I  recall  about  the  episode  is  that  we 
were  sending  away  the  First  Final  in  the  usual 
cyclone  of  bad  temper  and  balled-up  stories  (most 
of  my  memories  are  of  making  up  the  First  Final) . 
We  were  jamming  the  type  together  any  old  way, 
and  butchering  local  news  until  Franklin  darned 
near  cried,  and  trying  to  watch  our  proofs  during 
the  hullabaloo. 

"I  remember  the  Russian  story  was  made  up 
one  column  wide  on  the  first  page,  with  a  head 
over  it  something  like  'Russians  Threaten  Revolt.' 
And  just  as  we  were  closing,  the  tail  of  my  eye 
caught  a  proof,  under  a  small  head  follovdng  the 
big  one,  with  the  words  in  it:  *The  historic  event 


[135]  DEADLINES 

in  the  Sea  of  Japan.'  That  odd  phrase  struck  me ; 
it  warned  me,  as  it  were ;  it  set  alive  a  tiny  little 
prescience  of  trouble.  But  this  warning  died 
under  the  avalanche  of  things  I  had  to  do.  And  we 
went  to  press. 

"Three  other  afternoon  papers  went  to  press  at 
the  same  hour.  Copies  of  the  three  were  brought 
up  from  downstairs  at  the  same  time  with  our 
paper.    All  four  were  laid  on  my  desk  together." 

Campbell  pauses,  chuckles,  and  slaps  his  knee. 

"Oh,  those  headlines !  Thundering  Jabberwock !" 

"Come  now,"  scoffs  the  Star,  "you're  using  a 
story-teller's  trick;  suspensory  pause,  and  so  on. 
Cut  it  out!" 

"Those  headlines  said."  continues  Campbell, 
"those  rival  headlines — not  ours — said :  ^Terrific 
Naval  Battle  in  Sea  of  Japan.'  Togo  Defeats 
Russ  in  Great  Sea  Fight.'  *Epoch-Making  Naval 
Engagement;  Japanese  Reported  Victors.'  Our 
big  head  said;  'Russians  Threaten  Revolt.'  A 
thundering  scoop  on  us.  Every  line  of  it  A.  P. 
stuff,  too.  Stuff  that  had  come  to  us  as  well  as 
to  them.  Professional  pride,  good-night.  Great- 
ness of  old  Slater,  good-night.    Oh,  Lord !" 

And  Campbell  rocks  himself  with  the  memory. 

"Tho  Old  Man  burst  into  the  room  with  an 
armful  of  papers.  *Look  at  this,  and  this,  and 
this,'  he  said  to  Slater.  *And  look  what  we  have 
— a  wretched  follow  head.  You  can  hardly  find 
our  story  in  the  paper.    My  good  Lord,  what  will 


DEADLINES [isy 

people  say?  How  in  the  devil  can  I  ever  explain 
itr 

"Slater  sat  upright  and  bland  before  the  terrible 
exhibits.  He  took  out  a  pair  of  eye-glasses  he 
used  on  rare  occasions,  and  amiably  examined  the 
evidence. 

"*Isn*t  that  curious?'  he  said  (and  everybody 
was  listening,  you  bet.)  'Isn't  that  curious  ?  Now 
I  never  interpreted  the  dispatch  in  that  way.' 

"The  Old  Man  stood  back  of  him,  trembling. 

"  'Today's  historic  event  in  the  Sea  of  Japan' 
could  mean  but  one  thing,  Mr.  Slater,'  he  said. 
'Haven't  we  been  expecting  this  battle  for  days? 
And  as  the  cable  comes  from  the  Japanese,  would 
they  release  it  if  it  hadn't  meant  their  victory?' 

"  'Very  good  deduction,'  smiled  Slater.  'But  the 
first  rule  of  the  profession  is,  never  make  deduc- 
tions.' 

"The  Old  Man's  hair  stood  on  end.  He  smoothed 
it  down  carefully,  glared  at  Slater's  fat  back,  and 
strode  out." 

[V] 

OAMPBELL  takes  off  his  spectacles  and  wipes 
^^  them.  We  see  his  "philosophical  look"  com- 
ing on. 

"About  at  that  period,"  he  says,  "must  have 
been  when  the  subconscious  in  Slater  became  the 
conscious.  He  stepped  over  the  subliminal  thres- 
hold, and  .  .  .  ." 


[137] DEADLINES 

"Come  now,"  I  object.  "Did  he  quit,  like  the 
good  soldier  he  claimed  to  be?" 

Campbell  resumes  his  spectacles  and  rubs  his 
nose. 

"No.  I  don't  think  he  did.  In  fact.  I  know  he 
didn't.  The  Old  Man  was  too  short-handed  to  fire 
him.  No ;  Slater  continued  on  the  desk.  It  would 
have  been  hard  for  some  men  to  come  to  work  at 
all  after  a  boner  like  that.  But  Slater  faced  it 
out.  He  became  more  expansive  and  resonant 
than  ever.  The  rest  of  us,  out  of  decency,  kept 
quiet  about  that  dispatch ;  but  Slater  wouldn't  let 
it  rest.  He  was  still  talking  about  it  when  Roose- 
velt called  the  peace  conference.  He  had  half  a 
dozen  ways  of  accounting  for  it,  and  tried  them 
all  out  on  his  silent  desk-mates.  *It's  funny,  you 
know,'  he  would  say,  *I  don't  believe  I  saw  that 
sheet  of  copy  at  all ;  it  must  have  gone  out  uned- 
ited.' Next  day  it  would  be:  'Nothing  unusual 
about  that  little  oversight  of  mine;  I  remember 
back  on  the  old  Sun  .  .  .  .' 

"Of  course,  everybody  got  sick  and  tired  of  the 
thing.  As  for  the  Old  Man,  I  never  heard  him 
refer  to  it  after  the  first  day.  He  kept  Slater  on 
telegraph  until  Traubel  got  back;  but  he  never 
addressed  him.  Just  sent  in  boys  with  notes, 
when  he  had  any  instructions. 

"Well,  the  incident  and  the  war  itself  rolled 
back  into  history,  and  Slater,  settled  down  into 
his  old  groove,  hardly  seemed  to  change  at  all. 


DEADLINES t_i38j 

But  I  can  see  now  that,  little  by  little,  he  was 
decaying.  His  discourses  upon  topics  of  the  day 
became  more  and  more  vacuous.  There  came  into 
his  eyes  a  spark  of  anxiety — not  over  the  quality 
of  his  work,  but  due  to  the  fear,  I  guess,  that  peo- 
ple would  quit  listening  to  him.  He  gradually  gave 
up  trying  to  impress  the  older  men  and  picked 
out  newcomers,  cubs,  anything,  for  his  audience, 
switching  from  foreign  affairs  to  sports,  in  which 
he  was  well  versed.  After  a  while  he  was  taken 
off  the  local  desk,  and  set  to  reading  sporting 
copy.  Slide  number  one.  Then  he  moved  to  the 
afternoon  watch,  where  he  had  little  to  handle 
except  'specials.'  Slide  number  two.  He  took  to 
avoiding  the  staff,  and  he  was  found  frequently 
looking  into  space,  with  a  kind  of  sadness.  He 
was  growing  grey-headed. 

"The  reporters  who  had  played  poker  with  him 
many  a  night  began  to  organize  their  games  with- 
out him.  There  were  a  few  of  the  staff,  of  course, 
who  secretly  rejoiced  over  his  fall,  owing  to  old 
trifling  arguments  over  their  'stuff.'  But  on  the 
whole  nobody  bore  him  malice.  It  was  simply 
that  as  his  atmosphere  of  great  man  wore  out, 
and  his  essential  puniness  showed  itself,  he  dwin- 
dled, and  dwindled,  and  shrank  into  himself. 
People  stopped  speaking  to  him  in  the  elevator; 
he  didn't  appear  to  expect  a  salutation. 

"Only  Josslyn,  who  had  become  city  editor; 
Josslyn,  who  overlooks  nobody  and  pities  every- 


[139] DEADLINES 

body,  treated  him  like  an  equal.  I  suspect  Josslyn 
made  small  loans  to  the  fellow.  Slater  had  come 
to  that. 

"You  see,  his  inferiority  complex  .  .  ." 

[VI] 

LET  me  finish  it,"  interrupts  the  news-editor. 
"I  found  him  on  the  desk  when  I  took 
charge.  A  hollow-eyed  relic  with  shaky  legs. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  way  to  get  him  off.  By 
that  time  he  would  let  almost  anything  go  by  in 
a  piece  of  copy;  and  his  heads  were  just  blind 
staggers.  Fellows,  I  had  to  get  rid  of  him.  But 
still  he  looked  so  like  a  copy-reader  of  the  old 
school,  what  with  his  eye-shade  and  his  old  black 
sleeve-guards,  that  I  couldn't  treat  him  rough.  So 
I  manoeuvered  to  have  him  offered  a  job  on  a  trade 
paper,  paying  better  than  we  paid  him,  at  that; 
and  when  he  told  me  about  it  I  rapped  out,  'You 
quit  Monday,  then?'  before  he  had  actually 
resigned.  And  he  gulped,  and  replied,  *Yes,  sir.' 
Er — I  let  him  have  a  dollar. 

"Within  a  month  here  comes  one  of  those  cursed 
recommendation  forms,  a  big  gilt-edged  one  from 
some  bonding  company.  Slater  was  going  to  be 
a  high-class  salesman  of  something  or  other.  I 
filled  it  in  carefully,  my  pen  scratching  'excellent,' 
'excellent,'  everywhere.  (I  couldn't  get  over  the 
remnant  of  dignity  and  breeding  that  he  showed 
to  the  last.)    Not  two  weeks  went  by  before  I  got 


DEADLINES yioj 

another  blank.  This  time  he  had  applied  for  a 
clerkship  in  a  department  store.  The  qualifications 
not  so  severe.  I  scrawled  my  dishonest  opinion, 
and  sent  it  along.    Next  .  .  .  ." 

"You  see,  his  complex  had  passed  the  sublim- 
inal.   He  was  finding  his  level,"  puts  in  Campbell. 

"His  complex  had  a  few  to  go  yet.  I  O.  K.'d 
him  for  a  job  as  bill  clerk,  for  a  proof-reading 
job  in  Omaha,  for  a  place  as  timekeeper  v^ith  a 
cloak  and  suit  firm,  and  then  for  a  night  ticket 
agent  on  the  L.  I  could  imagine  all  the  time  his 
shoulders  getting  more  stooped,  his  cheeks  falling 
in,  and  that  queer  look  of  anxiety  Campbell  men- 
tioned growing  sharper. 

"Twice  I  passed  him  on  the  street.  He  didn't 
see  me.  Evidently  he  was  unemployed.  Once  he 
came  in  late  in  the  afternoon,  touched  Barlow  for 
a  half-dollar,  and  avoided  my  desk.  1  saw  him 
leave  the  building,  gazing  around  at  the  old  bar- 
racks with  a  wistful  look. 

"Some  months  went  by.  Then  came  a  recom- 
mendation blank  in  which  it  was  stated  that  Fin- 
lay  Slater  had  applied  for  a  position  as  a  night 
watchman ;  and  what  about  his  honesty,  sobriety, 
and  all  that?  .  .  .    Quick  curtain." 

[VII] 
T\7^  smoke  silently. 

VV    "Kotten  story,"  remarks  the  Star.     "No 
climax/' 


[141] DEADLINES 

"It  may  be  inferior  as  fiction/'  Campbell  defends 
himself.  "But  I  assure  you  it's  psychologically 
sound." 

"Clack-clack"  go  the  feet  of  the  dusty,  wrinkled 
pedestrians,  past  our  door.  The  voice  of  the  street 
comes  with  a  note  of  despair.  We  consult  our 
watches. 

And  now,  to  our  confounding,  a  long,  loose 
phantom  of  a  man,  with  grey  hair  crowned  by  an 
absurd  polo  cap,  halts  at  the  threshold.  He  sur- 
veys us  with  a  nervous  smirk,  and  enters,  holding 
out  a  mottled  hand  to  the  news  editor. 

"That  little  debt,"  he  murmurs,  and  departs. 

The  news  editor  discovers  in  his  hand  a  mouldy 
dollar  bill. 


[143] 


DEADLINES 


[X] 

The  Socialized 
Copy-Boy 

[I] 


OME  fifty  times  a  day— oh,  nearer 
a  hundred  times — the  cry  goes  up 
from  us:  "Boy,"  or  "Hey,  boy!" 
Toward  edition  times  that 
shout,  or  bark,  is  heard  all  over 
the  news-room.  It  comes  from  us 
automatically.  "Boy!"  What  boy?  Why,  any  boy. 
What  are  you  talking  about?  Any  one  of  those 
starvelings  on  the  bench.  They're  all  alike,  aren't 
they?  Who  knows  their  names?  Who  cares  who 
they  are,  or  what  they  think,  or  what  they  wear, 
so  they  have  legs  ? 

It  happens  frequently  that  one  of  them  is  fired. 
The  head  boy  then  identifies  the  departing 
employe  as  "You  know,  the  long-nosed  boy,"  or 
"the  boy  that  wears  the  brown  sweater."  This  is 
enough.    It  is  understood  that  the  long-nosed  boy 


DEADLINES [i44j 

is  no  longer  with  us,  and  for  that  hour,  as  he 
retires  crestfallen,  he  is  an  actuality.  But  the 
benchful  that  is  left  remains  a  mere  blur  of 
heads  and  faces,  half -visualized,  nameless  except 
Qs  a  job-lot  of  consonants. 

[II] 

HOWEVER,  there  is  Joe ;  or  rather,  there  was 
Joe.  For  he  is  gone.  We  got  so  far  as  to 
recognize  him  as  Joe  James,  which,  by  the  way, 
was  not  the  name  used  on  the  pay-roll.  He  was 
on  the  pay-roll  as  Valdimir  Sziewiscwicz. 

He  was  the  boy  we  hired  after  he  had  been 
fattened  at  the  North  Shore  camp.  A  charity  lady 
interceded  for  him  with  the  city  editor,  and  he 
"went  on"  at  six  dollars  a  week,  which  was  two 
dollars  less  than  the  scale.  We  felt  that  we  were 
rather  benevolent  as  it  was.  'X^^ 

The  charity  lady  gave  iis  Joe's  history  in  a 
manner  that  appealed  even  to  the  most  "hard- 
boiled"  among  us.  She  pictured  Joe's  home,  which 
she  had  seen :  The  second  house  west  of  the  C.  & 
N.  W.  tracks  on  Iron  street;  the  house  with  two 
boards  missing  from  the  front  steps,  and  a  clothes 
line  in  the  rear  always  full  of  Lilliputian  under- 
wear. She  pictured  Joe's  mother,  a  distracted 
shrew  with  a  moustache,  always  stumbling  over 
her  own  babies;  and  she  described  how  Joe's 
mother  had  thrust  Joe  down  those  dangerous 
steps,  yelling:  "You  got  no  job  you  don't  come 
back." 


[145] DEADLINES 

The  problem  thus  presented  to  Joe  was  quite 
insoluble,  not  only  because  of  his  unlovely  appear- 
ance, but  also  because  of  a  law;  a  law  which 
provided  that  no  boy  weighing  less  than  eighty 
pounds  could  obtain  the  necessary  working  certifi- 
cate, the  passport  of  boydom  to  the  great  world 
of  toil.  The  best  Joe  could  muster  was  sixty-eight 
pounds. 

The  charity  lady  found  him  in  the  ante-room 
of  the  school  examiner's  office,  weeping  over  those 
missing  pounds.  He  was  clearly  a  case  for  the 
Camp,  whither  he  was  with  some  diffiiculty 
removed.  They  put  him  to  bed  twice  a  day,  and 
made  him  lie  still  under  the  rough  blankets ;  they 
fed  him  milk,  gallons  of  milk ;  and  they  taught 
him  how  to  play,  really  to  play.  Every  evening 
they  marked  on  a  chart  the  ascending  curve  of 
Joe's  weight. 

The  only  time  it  deflected  was  the  day  his 
mother  appeared  at  the  camp,  with  a  kid  on 
each  arm,  and  demanded  him,  and  there  was  a 
scene — but  let  us  pass  on.  In  about  six  weeks 
Joe  tipped  the  scale  at  eighty,  and  despite  adenoids 
and  a  few  other  things  he  passed  the  school 
examination  and  was  awarded  his  work  certificate. 

It  was  then  that  the  charity  lady  called  on  us. 

"And  I  thought,"  she  said,  "that  you  kind  news- 
paper men  would  like  to  help  out  by  giving  Joe  a 
position.  I  do  so  want  him  to  become  a  member 
of  society."    She  beamed  upon  the  city  editor  and 


DEADLINES [uy 

the  desk  men.  "Besides,  it  would  be  so  nice  if  you 
could  make  a  little  story  of  it — what  we  did  for 
him  and  all.  You  could  even  print  photos  of  him 
before  and — er — after.  I  could  give  you  some 
good  photos  .  .  .  ." 

We  drew  the  line  at  the  pictures;  but  we  did 
"write  up"  Joe  for  a  merry  little  half  column. 

Thereupon,  quite  unmoved  by  his  distinction, 
Joe  took  his  place  upon  the  bench  among  the  half- 
visualized,  and  we  forgot  him  for  a  while. 

[Ill] 
15  UT  nof  for  long. 

^^  Perhaps  a  month  passed.  The  news-room 
floundered  on,  with  its  usual  dramas,  controver- 
sies, and  excitements.  The  bench  pursued  its 
quarrelsome  way,  with  the  average  amount  of 
bickerings,  of  hirings  and  firings.  We  still  yelled 
"Hey,  boy!"  at  the  bench  indiscriminately,  nor 
marked  which  urchin  sprang  to  the  call.  Joe,  with 
his  close-cropped  head,  large,  stupid  eyes  and 
skimpy  body,  had  become  absorbed  in  the  melee. 

Then  the  head  boy  came  to  the  city  editor. 

"You  know  that,  now,  kid  got  his  weight  by  that 
camp.  He  says  you  should  pay  him  off,  as  he  got 
to  quit." 

"What!  scowled  the  city  editor.    "What  boy?" 

Patient  explanation. 

"Oh,  that  one.    Well,  what's  wrong  with  him?" 

The  head  boy  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"Well,  he  says  account  he  lives  at  home  now 


[147] : DEADLINES 

he's  lost  two  pounds,  and  so  he  can't  work  no 
more." 

The  city  editor  called  his  assistant. 

"See  about  it,  will  you?"  he  begged;  and 
plunged  his  nose  into  a  pile  of  copy. 

The  assistant  investigated.  He  even  consulted 
authorities,  learning  thereby  that  to  maintain  Joe 
at  par  would  require  some  two  pints  of  milk  per 
diem.  It  seemed  unnecessary  to  tell  the  city 
editor  about  this.  The  obvious  thing  was  to  sup- 
ply the  milk ;  and,  in  order  that  the  expense  might 
not  fall  upon  the  office  treasury,  thus  upsetting 
various  sacred  rules,  the  assistant  city  editor  took 
up  a  collection  among  the  Star,  the  Drunkard, 
Josslyn  and  a  few  others  of  "the  crowd,"  and  a 
restaurant  downstairs  supplied  Joe's  milk  at  cost. 
The  school  authorities,  consulted  by  telephone, 
grandly  permitted  the  Great  Example  to  continue 
at  work  provided  only  that  he  be  weighed  each 
week  by  them,  and  be  maintained  at  normal. 

Faithfully  did  the  Joe's  Milk  Society  hew  to  the 
line.  Once  a  week  the  head  boy  took  up  the 
collection ;  twice  a  day  he  escorted  Joe  to  the  res- 
taurant and  prevailed  upon  him  to  swallow  the 
milk.  The  matter  fell  into  the  routine ;  it  became 
automatic,  like  keeping  the  assignment  book  or 
sweeping  out  the  office.  Thus  are  the  little  varia- 
tions of  our  news-room  life  drifted  over  by  the 
sands  of  the  commonplace. 

The  next  thing  that  came  up  was  a  question  of 


DEADLINES  imj 

working-hours.  In  this  we  enjoyed  the  enthusi- 
astic interference  of  our  old  friends  the  school 
authorities.  I  don't  know  how  many  records  they 
had  Joe  card-indexed  in ;  but  now  they  dug  up  one 
that  stumped  us.  Solemnly  each  week  they  had 
weighed  him  and  passed  him;  with  suspicion,  I 
suppose,  they  had  marked  the  fact  that  he  con- 
tinued to  draw  six  dollars  a  week.  And  now,  with 
an  efficiency  suitable  to  the  enforcement  of  a  law 
occupying  several  pages  in  the  statute-book,  they 
brought  forward  the  fact  that  Joe  required  more 
schooling. 

"Form  AAZ,"  the  notice  read.  "You  are  hereby 
informed  that  your  employe  Vladimir  Sziewisc- 
wicz  must  attend  continuation  school  four  (4) 
hours  a  week ." 

The  city  editor  slammed  the  notice  on  the  floor. 

"What's  all  this  about?  Good  Lord,  the  things 
a  fellow  gets  in  the  mail.  I  say,  Frank,  see  about 
it,  will  you?" 

The  suave  assistant  picked  up  the  crumpled 
notice,  and  by  some  inquiry  discovered  that  Vladi- 
mir S — etc.,  meant  Joe.  There  was  a  session  of 
the  milk  guarantors,  and  the  suggestion  was  put 
forward  that  if  Joe  was  to  become  a  member  of 
society  some  way  must  be  found  of  keeping  him 
at  work  and  at  the  same  time  sending  him  to 
school.  The  head  boy  brought  up  the  point  that 
in  this  event  he  must  add  another  member  to  the 
bench.    The  addition  was  at  once  authorized  by 


[149] DEADLINES 

the  assistant  city  editor,  and  the  following  red- 
tape  started  unwinding:  (1)  examination  and 
approval  of  the  new  boy's  work  certificate;  (2) 
order  to  cashier  placing  him  on  pay-roll ;  (3)  entry 
of  new  name  on  pay-roll ;  (4)  issuance  of  identifi- 
cation check,  locker  key,  etc. ;  (5)  drawing  up  of 
new  pay-check;  (6)  checking  against  pay-roll  to 
make  sure  amount  correct;  (7)  auditing  of  revised 
aggregate  pay-roll  by  auditor;  (8)  recording  of 
revised  figures  on  three  or  four  index  cards;  (9) 
identification  of  new  boy  as  the  one  entitled  to 
check;  (10)  cashing  of  check  at  pay-clerk's  win- 
dow. I  mention  these  things  only  to  suggest  the 
social  forces  put  into  play  by  establishing  a  mem- 
ber of  society. 

Yes,  the  advent  of  Joe  began  to  be  felt  in  other 
departmenxs  than  ours.  It  was  presently  felt  in 
the  medical  department,  which  consisted  of  two 
doctors  in  an  office  around  the  corner.  They  had 
not  had  a  case  from  our  shop  for  over  a  year,  and 
the  placard  on  the  wall  saying  "In  case  of  accident, 

notify  Dr.  B "  had  become  illegible  from  dust. 

But  Joe  became  a  case.  He  reported  one  morning 
with  an  angry-looking  patch  of  skin  on  his  right 
forearm,  more  or  less  covered  by  court-plaster. 
It  developed  that  he  had  scratched  himself  the 
day  before  on  the  pneumatic  tube  leading  to 
the  composing  room.  He  exhibited  the  wound  to 
the  head  boy,  who  thought  nothing  of  it.  Nobody 
thought  anything  of  it.    The  bench  was  always 


DEADLINES ysy 

getting  itself  bruised,  or  black-eyed,  or  consump- 
tive. But  after  a  few  days  Josslyn,  passing  on 
his  way  to  lunch,  noticed  Joe's  arm.  It  was 
swollen  to  astounding  dimensions  and  bound  with 
loathsome  rags.  The  sight  stopped  the  compas- 
sionate Josslyn  in  his  tracks. 

"What  on  earth's  happened  to  you?"  he 
demanded. 

Joe  merely  rolled  his  large,  stupid  eyes. 

"Sore  arm,"  he  mumbled. 

"But  have  you  had  a  doctor?" 

Joe  looked  blank. 

Then  Josslyn  hailed  the  city  editor.  Had  he 
seen  this  kid's  arm?  Ought  the  kid  be  allowed 
to  work? 

"Gad,  I  haven't  time  to  inspect  their  arms," 
complained  the  C.  E.  Nevertheless,  he  took  time 
to  inspect  Joe's ;  and  a  copy-reader  or  two  strolled 
over,  and  somebody  remarked  "blood  poison." 
Joe  met  the  inspection  and  remarks  dispassion- 
ately. But  once,  when  someone  inquired,  "Does 
it  hurt?"  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  for  a 
moment  he  seemed  human. 

The  fact  emerging  that  he  had  been  scratched 
upon  our  pneumatic  tube,  and  not  any  pneumatic 

tube  belonging  to  the  S ,  etc.,  family,  it  seemed 

proper  to  invoke  the  privilege  of  calling  up  Dr. 

B .    The  doctor  entered  into  the  matter  with 

alacrity.  Not  so  Joe,  however.  He  grumbled,  he 
protested,  he  showed  every  sign  of  fear,  at  last 


[151] DEADLINES 

he  fought — like  many  other  beings  in  process  of 
being  made  members  of  society.  But,  being  prac- 
tically one-armed,  he  could  not  prevail  against  the 
head  boy  and  the  numerous  volunteers  from  the 
bench. 

A  small  procession,  consisting  of  Joe,  the  head 
boy  and  Josslyn,  followed  the  little-known  path 
to  the  doctor's  office,  pausing  on  the  way  for  milk. 
They  returned  with  the  arm  in  a  beautiful  bandage 
and  a  wondering  look  in  Joe's  eyes. 

I  realize  that  these  incidents  do  not  carry  an 
ascending  curve  of  interest.  Joe  did  not  die.  His 
arm  "went  down,"  both  as  a  swelling  and  as  an 
event.  But,  to  prove  that  establishing  him  in  the 
status  in  which  we  were  establishing  him  carries 
consequences  of  some  sort,  consider  these  results : 
(1)  Three  signatures  to  be  obtained  to  a  document 
resembling  an  income  tax  schedule,  describing  the 
accident,  the  parentage  of  Joe,  and  so  on;  (2)  a 
physician's  bill  very  simply  conceived,  but  requir- 
ing the  signature  of  four  department  heads  before 
being  valid ;  (3)  an  order  permitting  Joe  to  remain 
at  home  with  full  pay ;  (4)  a  written  explanation 
to  the  ever-vigilant  school  people  that  he  was 
absent  from  school  owing  to  circumstances  beyond 
our  control ;  (5)  the  sudden  awareness  of  the  Old 
Man — through  his  having  to  sign  two  of  the  docu- 
ments— that  Joe  existed  as  an  office  problem. 


DEADLINES  v^\ 

[IV] 

THE  Old  Man,  however,  did  not  yet  know  Joe 
by  sight.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  never  came  to 
do  so.  I  don't  know  that  even  the  catastrophe 
next  following  shocked  the  Old  Man  as  it  did  us. 

For  some  weeks  after  the  medical  incident  noth- 
ing happened  to  our  Great  Example.  Glancing 
casually  at  him,  we  seemed  to  observe  that  he  was 
looking  more  prosperous,  as  well  as  rather  more 
than  half-witted.  The  milk  contributions  had 
stopped.  Joe  had  safely  and  permanently  passed 
the  eighty  mark.  The  school  people  had  stopped 
weighing  him.  He  came  down  every  morning, 
went  blindly  but  faithfully  about  his  tasks,  and 
had  nothing  to  say. 

But  one  afternoon,  when  there  was  hell  of  some 
sort  popping — ^I  believe  it  was  a  Board  of  Trade 
failure — the  unlucky  destiny  of  the  Sziewiscwicz 
line  showed  itself  once  more. 

The  Old  Man,  who  was  considerably  excited  by 
the  failure,  had  made  several  trips  into  the  news- 
room, asking  questions  and  giving  orders.  Most 
of  us  knew  when  he  was  coming — we  knew  his 
step  a  mile  away — and  when  he  approached  the 
swing  door  from  the  news  room  into  the  hall,  his 
mere  shadow  was  enough  to  make  us  stand  aside. 
About  two  o'clock  he  started  to  come  through, 
with  his  gaze,  as  usual,  fixed  some  five  feet  above 
the  floor.  Just  then  Joe  started  to  gallop  out  the 
other  way,  carrying  a  proof  with  a  rush  correction. 


[153  3 '  DEADLINES 

He  hit  the  door  like  a  small  battering  ram,  flung 
it  smartly  against  the  Old  Man's  knuckles  and 
knees ;  and  then  he  tried  to  squeeze  past  the  man- 
aging editor's  large  bulk  and  escape. 

The  boss,  with  half  the  breath  knocked  out  of 
him,  snatched  at  Joe's  shoulder,  but  missed.  Joe 
sprawled  on  all  fours;  but  his  instinct  of  escape 
from  authority  gave  him  new  strength,  and  he 
made  off  down  the  hall,  dropping  the  corrected 
proof  as  he  fled. 

As  soon  as  the  Old  Man  could  recover  he  stuck 
his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  yelled  to  all  the 
executives  in  sight :  "Fire  that  boy !  Fire  him  at 
once." 

Rueful  glances  went  about  the  desk. 

The  Old  Man  (dusting  his  knees) — "What  boy 
was  that?" 

City  Editor — "I  didn't  notice.  Did  anybody  see 
which  boy  it  was?" 

Silence. 

Old  Man  (to  head  boy)— -"You  know  who  it  was. 
Speak  up." 

Head  Boy— "It's  a  lad  we  call  Joe." 

Old  Man— "Well,  bounce  him."  (To  city  editor) : 
"Damn  it.  Brown,  what  do  you  have  those  calf- 
headed  Bohunks  around  here  for?  I'll  make  an 
example  of  him." 

City  Editor  (with  a  sly  look  at  Josslyn)— 
"We've  been  figuring  he  was  an  example  already. 
You  see,  sir,  he's  the  kid  we  got  from  the  camp 


DEADLINES n54j 

where  he  was  fattened.  He's  an  unusual  case. 
He  .  .  .  :' 

Old  Man — "Fat  or  lean,  out  he  goes.  Now  see 
here,  I  don't  think  these  figures  on  the  liabili- 
ties .  .  .  ." 

And  that  was  all  of  that.  Reluctantly  we  gave 
Joe  his  hat,  and  an  order  for  his  pay,  and  broke  it 
to  him  that  he  was  severed  from  the  pay  roll.  He 
took  the  news  easily,  and  clumped  out  of  the  office 
without  regrets  or  good-byes.    Well,  so  long,  Joe. 

I  was  not  present  the  next  day  when  a  Slavic 
gentleman  with  a  very  radical  moustache,  bulging 
eyes  and  dirty  overalls,  came  up  to  see  the  city 
editor,  dragging  a  small  urchin  called  Vladimir, 
but  I  heard  about  it.  It  seems  the  low-browed 
person  offered  to  break  every  bone  in  the  boy's 
body  if  we  so  desired.  The  low-browed  person 
offered  apologies  to  our  honorable  newspaper  for 
the  conduct  of  his  son ;  he  took  off  his  cap  to  the 
assistant  city  editor,  who  went  out  to  see  him; 
and  renewed  the  bone-breaking  offer.  The  A.  C.  E., 
alarmed,  advised  against  this  solution.  "You  see, 
Joe  didn't  do  anything  much,"  he  told  the  elder 
Bohunk.  "It  wasn't  serious  at  all."  Whereupon 
the  bone-breaker  bade  a  polite  adieu  to  the  A.  C.  E. 
and  dragged  Joe  away  with  him. 

So  ended  that  lesson. 


/ 


[1551 DEADLINES 

m 

/"CHRISTMAS  began  to  approach.  I  mention 
^^  Christmas  not  in  order  to  lend  a  new  and 
saccharine  element  to  this  tale,  but  because  with 
Christmas  came  always  a  new  set  of  problems 
surrounding  the  bench,  a  new  spirit  entirely 
among  the  mob  of  boys.  The  office  had  a  custom 
of  giving  a  turkey  to  each  employe.  It  was 
noticeable  that  discipline  on  the  bench  improved 
as  Christmas  came  near.  Sometimes,  too,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  unusually  large  membership. 

The  quota  this  December  was  considerable.  The 
city  editor  had  called  the  head  boy  to  him  and  had 
declared:  "Don't  you  hire  any  more  of  'em  now, 
do  you  hear  me?" 

About  December  20  a  very  familiar  figure  was 
found  one  morning  sitting  on  the  bench.  The  only 
unfamiliar  thing  about  it  was  that  it  wore  long 
trousers.  Barring  this,  it  bore  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  a  member  colloquially  known  as  Joe,  but 
officially  as  Sziewiscwicz. 

How  did  this  materialization  accord  with  the 
orders  given  to  the  head  boy?  That  was  the 
question  asked  in  whispers  on  the  copy  desk.  Had 
Josslyn  interceded  for  Joe?  No,  Josslyn  had  not. 
The  attention  of  the  other  members  of  the  defunct 
milk  society  was  called  to  the  apparition.  "Oh,  I 
suppose  Frank  (the  assistant  city  editor)  got  him 
put  back.    It's  nearly  Christmas,  you  know. 


DEADLINES ysn 

But  Frank  denied  having  done  this.  In  fact,  he 
looked  alarmed  and  went  over  to  the  head  boy,  and 
without  meeting  Joe's  appealing  eyes,  inquired: 
"What's  this  kid  doing  here?" 

"He's  just  visiting,"  explained  the  head  boy. 

"Oh!    Visiting!" 

The  copy  desk  suppressed  smiles. 

Here  the  city  editor,  annoyed  by  the  voices, 
looked  up.  He,  too,  became  aware  of  the  presence 
of  Joe.  He  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  bench,  and 
spoke  with  undue  gentleness. 

"I  don't  think  it  looks  very  well  for  you  to  visit 
here,  Joe,"  he  said.    "You'd  better  go." 

The  head  boy  looked  embarrassed. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  at  your  desk  a  minute,  Mr. 
Brown?"  he  begged.  Permission  given,  he  fol- 
lowed his  chief  to  the  desk,  where  he  bent  over 
him  and  mumbled  earnestly  for  quite  a  while. 

As  we  learned  later,  the  plea  involved  the  fol- 
lowing details :  Joe  had  saved  out  of  his  earnings, 
both  what  we  paid  him  and  what  he  had  gained 
by  odd  jobs  later,  enough  to  purchase  on  part  pay- 
ments the  long-trousered  suit  he  now  wore.  It 
was  the  only  suit  he  had,  those  of  previous  winters 
having  descended  to  his  small  brothers.  "Well, 
his  father,  now,"  the  head  boy  may  be  imagined 
saying,  "his  father  says  he  won't  let  him  go  out 
of  the  house  Christmas;  he'll  take  his  clothes 
away  and  make  him  stay  in  bed,  account  he's  got 
only  one  suit  you  see  that's  what  he'll  have  to  do. 


[157] DEADLINES 

unless  .  .  .  ."  And  the  alternative  made  Brown 
first  swear  and  then  laugh.  The  alternative  was 
that  Joe  must  get  back  his  job  on  the  paper.  Yes, 
that  was  it,  incredible  as  it  sounds ;  Joe  must  be 
hired  back  or  stay  in  bed  all  day  Christmas. 

I  heard  the  city  editor  and  his  assistant  dis- 
cussing it. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  let  that  bulldozing  Bohunk 
put  it  over,"  he  said.    "Fine  chance." 

"It  ain't  the  kid's  fault,"  mused  the  assistant. 

The  city  editor  tapped  his  desk  with  his  pencil 
for  some  minutes. 

"He  was  a  good  kid,  wasn't  he?"  he  seemed  to 
remind  himself.  "But,"  he  broke  out,  on  a  sudden 
thought,  "he's  the  one  who  crashed  into  the  Old 
Man  at  the  door.    Gee,  I'd  forgotten  that." 

"The  Old  Man  would  never  remember  him," 
murmured  the  assistant.  "He's  got  long  trousers 
now." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  city  editor's  face 
lit  up. 

"Say,  I'll  put  him  on  as  an  extra  till  after 
Christmas,"  he  announced.  "Then  we'll  can  him 
again,  see?"    And  he  sent  for  the  head  boy. 

I  heard  this  conversation,  and  I  record  it  because 
it  is  typical  of  the  things  that  make  us  fond  of 
Brown,  and  that  make  us  fond  of  our  crowd  as  a 
whole,  and  of  the  news-room  atmosphere  gener- 
ally. Oh,  yes,  we  break  all  the  rules  of  100  per 
cent  efficiency  and  economy  sometimes;  and  we 


DEADLINES ussj 

contradict  ourselves;  and  we  act  like  fools  trying 
to  make  people  members  of  society;  and  alto- 
gether we're  a  shiftless,  a  cynical  and  untruth- 
ful crew.  And  we  put  Joe  back  on  the  pay-roll 
under  an  entirely  new  name;  and  we  taught  him 
to  keep  his  head  down  when  he  passed  the  Old 
Man  (though  the  Old  Man  never  looked  at  him 
twice).  And  Joe  walked  home  with  the  biggest 
turkey  of  the  lot  that  Christmas,  besides  getting 
his  share  of  the  $5.75  the  staff  contributed  as  the 
annual  Yuletide  donation  to  the  bench.  To  cap  the 
climax.  Brown  forgot  to  take  Joe  off  from  the 
pay-roll  after  Christmas  was  over,  and  he  stayed 
at  work,  drawing  six  dollars  a  week  and  picking 
up  a  dime  now  and  then  for  extra  errands. 

The  years  pass.  Joe's  limbs  grow  thick  and 
powerful.  He  begins  to  have  a  slight  moustache. 
He  is  reliable,  and  "runs"  even  the  Old  Man's 
proofs  with  distinction.  He  is  spoken  of  for  head 
boy.    He  is  a  success.    The  experiment 

[VI] 

aTE  day  not  long  ago  the  city  editor  met  the 
charity  lady  at  a  committee  meeting. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  gushed.  "Fd  so  like  to 
know  what  became  of  that  boy — really,  I  don't 
recall  his  name — ^the  one  you  so  kindly  gave  a 
position  to  after  his  treatment  at  the  camp.  Is 
he  still  in  your  office?" 


[1591 DEADLINES 

"No,"  replied  Brown.    "He  isn't." 

"Dear,  dear;  I'm  sorry.  I  thought  it  would  be 
such  a  nice  position  for  him." 

"It  was,"  said  Brown.  "Yes,  it  was  a  good  place 
for  Joe.  We  did  everything  for  him  we  could ;  and 
I  suppose  that  as  a  sociological  experiment  it  was 
A  number  1.    But  .  .  .  ." 

"Do  tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  you  see,  he  was  raised  two  dollars  a  week. 
We  thought  that  was  pretty  good — considering 
everything.  But  about  two  months  after  he  got 
the  raise,  he — well,  I  remember  that  just  as  I  was 
cleaning  up  copy  for  the  Home  Edition  one  day  the 
shadow  of  a  stocky  form  fell  across  my  desk,  and 
although  I  was  trying  to  talk  to  three  other  people 
at  once  this  person  insisted  on  talking  to  me.  It 
was  our  friend  Joe,  now  nearly  full  grown  (for  a 
Bohunk),  well  fed,  confident,  sophisticated,  argu- 
mentative, and  angry.  He  looked  at  me  with 
smoldering  black  eyes  from  under  a  safe-blower's 
cap  he  was  wearing.  And  he  said,  *Mr.  Brown,  I 
got  to  have  more  money,  see,  or  I  quit,  see?*  I 
was  very  busy,  so  I  said — well,  it  was  to  the  effect 
that  he  should  retire  at  once.  He  swaggered  out 
of  the  office,  and  that  was  the  last  we  saw  of 
him." 

"I'm  sorry,"  bewailed  the  charity  lady.  "I  never 
dreamed  he  would  become  that  sort  of  person, 
after  so  much  kindness." 


DEADLINES neoj 

"Well,"  said  Brown  (and  I  don't  suppose  he 
meant  it  cynically  at  all),  "at  least  we  admit  that 
Joe  became  quite  a  typical  member  of  society." 


[161] 


DEADLINES 


[XI] 

The  Triumphant 
Comma-Hound 


[I] 


OMETIMES,  although  rarely, 
Josslyn  tells  us  a  story.  He  is 
full  of  fables  of  the  news  room, 
this  "old  inhabitant."  We  like  to 
sit  about,  with  our  feet  cushioned 
upon  piles  of  early  editions,  and 
isten  to  his  narratives.  And  we  like,  too,  to  watch 
the  changes  upon  Josslyn's  serene  face,  and  the 
growing  warmth  that  brings  back  his  youth.  Yes, 
and  we  laugh  more  heartily,  perhaps,  than  his 
humor  demands. 

This  afternoon  he  told  us  the  story  of  the 
Triumphant  Comma  Hound.  I  give  it,  not  quite 
in  his  words,  and  excluding  most  of  the  techni- 
calities. I  forget  what  evoked  the  story ;  perhaps 
that  egregious  but  no  longer  shocking  typograph- 
ical error  of  three  editions  since,  when  a  bank  was 
referred  to  by  the  clearing  house  as  "solvent,"  and 
the  paper  declared  it  "insolvent." 
But  to  the  story ;  or  rather,  the  paraphrase. 


DEADLINES vm\ 

[III 

IT  was  one  soggy,  dark,  dreadful  morning  some 
ten  years  ago.  The  "gang"  had  got  in  late 
that  morning.  Everybody's  brain  was  like  mush. 
It  was  the  same  in  the  composing  room  as  in  the 
news-room;  the  disgusting  soot  blanket  of  the 
city  seemed  to  have  closed  down  over  one's  head. 
The  printers  worked  droopily.  Editors  collided 
with  them.  There  were  peevish  exchanges.  The 
first  edition  was  sent  away  ten  minutes  late. 

During  the  lull  before  the  next  edition,  Josslyn 
says,  the  feeling  got  about  the  news-room  that 
something  was  sure  to  go  wrong ;  or  already  had. 
Sometimes  you  aren't  certain  what  may  lurk  for 
you  among  the  ample  folds  of  the  paper  just 
issued.  "I  remember,"  said  our  raconteur,  "that 
Frank  Wade,  the  head  copy-reader  (this  was  just 
before  I  quit  the  city  desk) ,  called  over  to  me  that 
morning :  "I'm  using  all  four  eyes  today.  It  seems 
to  drip  errors." 

Still,  Josslyn  shaped  up  his  work  for  the  next 
edition,  the  "Market  Special,"  without  much 
thought  of  trouble.  He  went  to  lunch,  as  usual, 
just  after  his  copy  was  all  out;  and  returned  in 
his  wonted  twenty  minutes  in  time  to  meet  the 
printed  papers  coming  up  the  elevator  under  a 
boy's  arm.  Josslyn  stepped  inside  the  door  of  the 
news-room,  letting  the  boy  squeeze  by  him.  Before 
he  had  time  to  seize  a  paper  the  boy  had  dumped 


[163] DEADLINES 

the  bundle  on  the  copy  desk,  and  the  terrible 
discovery  was  made  by  Wade. 

"Great  gosh,  fellows,  look  at  this!"  was  the 
"head's"  horrified  yell.  Josslyn  gave  one  look,  and 
— well  it  was  awful  enough ! 

The  copy-readers  seized  their  papers  with  a 
single  motion,  and  spread  them  out.  Murmurs  of 
"Holy  sailors!"  and  "Well,  of  all  the  dymna- 
tion " 

They  were  looking,  with  varying  attitudes  of 
awe,  stupefaction  or  amusement,  at  the  big  two- 
column  head  at  the  right  hand  of  the  page.    This 
headline  (in  at  least  36-point)  read: 
"BLODGETT  IS  THIEF." 

The  subordinate  line— "pyramid,"  Josslyn  called 
it — followed,  with  astounding  inconsequence,  or 
subtle  logic,  as  one  chose  to  look  at  it : 

"Well-Known  Banker  Elected  President 
of  Chamber  of  Commerce." 

The  Drunkard  (just  then  in  favor)  caught  hold 
of  a  chair  in  mock  panic,  and  shouted:  "Some 
paper  today,  fellows !    Come  and  look  at  it." 

Everybody  was  looking  at  it.  Josslyn  confesses 
he  was  too  stunned  for  a  moment  to  act.  Frank 
Wade  recovered  himself  first,  rushed  to  the  'phone, 
and  started  howling  for  the  pressroom  to  stop  the 
run.  There  were  explosions  of  laughter  and  pro- 
fanity all  through  the  room.  A  copy-boy  seized 
upon  the  occasion  to  fall  over  backward  in  his 
chair  with  a  devastating  crash.     Josslyn  stood 


DEADLINES ney 

fingering  the  paper,  his  paper  of  whose  reputation 
he  thought  so  much,  with  that  furious  libel  on 
top  of  one  of  his  stories — the  story  that  was  being 
at  that  moment  fed  out  to  the  financial  district 
with  the  motto  in  an  "ear"  on  the  corner  of  the 
page :  "Latest  and  Most  Reliable  Market  Reports." 

The  Drunkard  mounted  a  chair  and  read,  as 
though  at  a  public  meeting: 

"BLODGETT  IS  THIEF. 

"Weil-Known  Banker  Elected  President  of 

Chamber  of  Commerce." 

But  just  then  there  was  a  hush;  a  truce  alike 
upon  hilarity  and  debate.  The  Old  Man  came  in. 
He  grasped  a  copy  of  the  paper  in  both  hands. 

The  copy-readers  dropped  into  their  chairs  as 
though  at  drill.  The  Drunkard  sprang  to  the  floor, 
and  started  to  whistle.  Josslyn  advanced  to  meet 
the  Old  Man. 

[Ill] 

TJE  says  the  calm  of  the  managing  editor  was 
**•  '*•  admirable.  But  one  can  imagine  the  way 
his  eyes  must  have  glittered  through  his  well- 
known  spectacles,  and  how  like  marble  his  jaw 
was  set. 

"Have  you  stopped  the  run?"  were  the  Old 
Man's  words. 

"IVe  been  'phoning,"  cried  Wade  from  the  booth, 
"but  I  can't  get  a  connection." 

"Don't    waste    your    highly    valuable    energy 


[165] DEADLINES 

then,"  said  the  Old  Man.  "By  this  time  the  edition 
has  been  printed — fortunately  or  unfortunately, 
as  may  be." 

He  walked  up  to  the  copy-desk,  and  only  then, 
Josslyn  says,  could  it  be  seen  how  his  powerful 
hands  were  trembling. 

"If  any  gentleman  who  writes  heads,"  he 
remarked  placidly,  "if  any  journalist  here  present 
sent  out  a  head  reading  that  way,  I  invite  him 
to  take  my  place  in  the  county  jail  after  Mr. 
Blodgett  brings  criminal  libel  proceedings.  And  I 
invite  him  to  draw  the  pay  due  him  at  once.  In 
fact  .  .  .  ." 

A  copy-reader  whose  name  Josslyn  recalls  only 
as  "Ruddy"  rose  from  his  seat  and  spoke  like  a 
child  at  school : 

"I  wrote  that  head,  Mr.  Thain.  I — I  swear  I 
wrote  it  'chief.' " 

"  'Chief,'  not  'thief*  ?"  in  the  Old  Man's  most 
punctilious  tone. 

"Sure,  I  wrote  it  'Blodgett  Is  Chief/  just  like 
that.    Believe  me,  Mr.  Thain  .  .  .  ." 

But  the  Old  Man  had  already  started  for  the 
composing  room.  Josslyn  flitted  at  his  elbow; 
Frank  Wade  and  a  couple  of  others  followed  the 
Old  Man's  dark,  brooding  bulk.  A  "curious 
throng,"  as  the  News  Bureau  says,  trickled  after 
at  a  distance. 

Somebody  in  the  procession  murmured  a 
"secret"  known  to  all:   "Why,  Blodgett  is  one  of 


DEADLINES       ijm 

Mr.  Jefferson's  best  friends!  A  swell  thing  to 
hang  on  the  composing  room."  And  somebody- 
else:  "I  wonder  who  the  poor  devil  of  a  proof- 
reader is,  and  what  he'll  get." 

You  see,  everybody  figured  that,  whoever  he 
was,  the  proofreader  was  bound  to  be  a  poor  devil. 
Proofreaders  (commonly  called  "comma-hounds") 
are  that,  anyway.    Ask  the  copy-desk. 

[IV] 

I  WAS  considerably  dazed  as  we  entered  the 
composing  room,"  Josslyn  Siaid.  "I  hardly 
knew  what  was  going  on.  But,"  giving  us  one  of 
those  glimpses  of  his  reflective  nature,  "I  felt,  as 
I  often  do,  the  majesty  of  the  place.  Yes,  majesty ! 
The  composing  room,  for  me,  has  twice  the  class 
of  the  news-room.  The  beat  of  the  linotypes  alone, 
the  queer  rushing  sound,  like  showers  of  warm 
rain,  gives  one  a  feeling  of  scope,  of — er,  I  don't 
know  what.  And  everything,  except  maybe  at  the 
stone,  is  so  orderly,  so  heavy  with  tradition.  You 
feel  the  unity  of  that  gang  of  workers,  their  craft- 
pride;  you  get  a  sense  of  rules  upon  rules.  And 
you  divine  how  men  have  become  cogs  in  this  mass 
of  machinery,  how  they  turn,  turn,  until  they 
wear  out.    Especially  the  comma-hounds." 

We  politely  endured  this  digression.  Someone 
remarked,  "I  don't  suppose  the  Old  Man  was  think- 
ing about  that  as  he  bore  down  on  Big  Jim." 

Josslyn  was  certain  he  was  not.    The  Old  Man 


[167] DEADLINES 

was  out  to  demolish  something.  He  tramped  down 
the  aisle  between  the  linotypes,  uttering  not  a 
word.    The  floor  shook  under  him. 

Arrived  at  the  stone  with  his  accusing  copy  of 
the  paper  still  clasped  in  both  hands,  he  found 
Big  Jim  in  the  center  of  a  circle  of  printers,  some 
grinning,  others  scratching  their  heads  with  ink- 
black  fingers.  An  old  fellow  with  a  leather  apron 
and  a  stained  beard  was  doing  a  lot  of  explaining 
to  the  foreman.  He  was  the  man  who  set  up  the 
head. 

"I  just  picked  out  o*  the  wrong  box,"  he  was 
saying.  "Might  'a*  happened  to  anybody.  I  just 
picked  out  0*  the  wrong  box  .  .  .  ." 

The  Old  Man  burst  into  this  leisurely  post- 
mortem like  Death  itself  visiting  a  coroner's 
inquest. 

"Mr.  Muldoon,"  he  said,  in  the  high,  arrogant 
way  he  kept  for  such  encounters,  "I  suppose  you 
have  seen  this — this  pleasing  example  of  typog- 
raphy. I  only  wonder  your  men  did  not  set  it  in 
ninety-six  point,  although  ordered  in  thirty-six." 

"IVe  seen  it;  yes,  Mr.  Thain,"  replied  Big  Jim. 
He  was  a  head  taller  than  the  Old  Man,  and 
a  heap  more  combative. 

"Well,  what  would  you  suggest  doing  about  it?" 

"I  would  suggest  that  you  leave  that  to  me," 
answered  Jim,  folding  his  great,  muscle-ridged 
arms. 

The  Old  Man  swung  his  gaze  about,  as  though 


DEADLINES nesj 

to  overawe  the  entire  membership  of  the  typo- 
graphical union,  if  possible — also  to  see  whether 
the  editors  present  were  listening. 

"The  trouble  with  this  place,"  he  declaimed,  "is 
that  there's  no  penalty — no  penalty.  Mistakes 
like  this  will  go  on  in  this  composing  room  indefi- 
nitely.   No  one  will  be  fired." 

The  printers,  safe  though  they  were  under  the 
shadow  of  Big  Jim,  shrank  before  the  Old  Man's 
spectacles.  The  foreman,  however,  only  remarked : 
"What  you'd  better  be  doin'  is  to  see  if  your  editor 
wrote  the  head  so  my  man  could  read  it." 

Approving  murmurs  from  the  printers;  mur- 
murs of,  "You  bet !  Plenty  of  blind  handwriting 
nowadays." 

"Send  for  the  copy,"  blurted  the  Old  Man. 
"Have  you  got  the  copy?" 

Then  he  had  another  thought. 

"Who  read  proof  on  this  ?  Must  have  been  one 
of  that  new  crew  you  hired.  They've  been  letting 
things  go  by  for  weeks." 

Big  Jim  grinned. 

"One  of  the  new  crew,  eh?  Look  here,  Mr. 
Thain,  I'll  let  you  have  a  look  at  the  proofreader 
who  0.  K.'d  this  head.  He's  no  chicken.  It  was 
old  Johnny  Donahue,  and  no  other.    Old  Johnny." 

This  name,  which  may  have  meant  something 
to  Big  Jim,  carried  no  idea  at  all  to  the  visiting 
editors,  Josslyn  said.  It  was  odd,  too.  They 
thought  they  knew  everybody  in  the  composing 


[  169  ] DEADLINES 

room.  Yet  Jim's  words  described  someone  who  had 
worked  for  years  in  the  comma-hounds'  kennel, 
and  never  had  shown  his  face  to  an  editor ;  never 
had  walked  in  at  a  busy  time  and  argued  about  the 
meaning  of  a  word  like  "transpired"  or  "pene- 
trated" ;  never  had  come  up  to  the  stone  and  said, 
"Look  here,  I  suppose  you'll  say  this  is  all  right, 
but  I  can't  make  sense  of  it" ;  never — and  this  was 
strangest  of  all — never  had  requested  free  tickets 
to  the  poultry  show  or  the  six-day  bicycle  race. 
Who  was  this  man  ?    Why,  Johnny  Donahue ! 

"Send  for  Donahue,"  ordered  Big  Jim.  A  galley 
boy  went  scurrying. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  interchange  of  cour- 
tesies. The  audience  at  the  clinic  hung  about 
talking  in  whispers.  Our  Old  Man,  upon  whose 
forehead  gleamed  drops  of  perspiration,  stood  and 
scowled  at  the  words,  "Blodgett  Is  Thief."  The 
great  swish  of  the  machines  went  on  in  waves. 
The  tall  clock  grimaced  down  over  the  room. 

And  suddenly  it  was  found,  Josslyn  dramatic- 
ally declared,  that  Mr.  Jefferson  was  among  them. 
How  he  had  arrived  so  silently  no  one  knew.  He 
had  come  without  warning ;  he  had  not  been  sent 
for.  In  fact,  this  manifestation  was  without  prec- 
edent. 

Josslyn  remembers  that  the  owner  wore  an 
elegant  black  morning-coat,  and  carried  eye- 
glasses pinned  to  his  silken  lapel.  His  grey 
moustache  was  neatly  trimmed.    He  might  have 


DEADLINES [1701 

been  on  his  way  to  an  audience  at  the  White 
House. 

[V] 

THE  news  of  the  owner's  arrival  in  person 
traveled  electrically  up  and  down  the  ranks 
of  machines.  Heads  appeared  here  and  there, 
popping  up  in  unexpected  places.  It  was  a  lull 
in  the  morning's  work,  anyhow;  the  lull  became 
a  recess.  By  twos  and  threes  printers  stole  up 
to  the  edge  of  our  group,  until  the  assemblage 
suggested  a  union  chapel  meeting.  A  knot  of 
galley  boys  jostled  and  winked  at  a  distance. 
Everything  hung  fire,  awaiting  Mr.  Jefferson's 
words. 

That  he  was  very  angry  nobody  needed  to  be 
told. 

But  though  angry,  and  hurt,  and  perhaps  a  bit 
rattled,  the  owner  showed  his  employes  the  quality 
of  his  self-control.  He  was  more  deliberate  than 
the  Old  Man ;  he  was  calmer  than  Big  Jim.  Evi- 
dently during  the  few  minutes  since  he  had  seen 
that  appalling  head  he  had  felt,  digested,  and 
lived  down  the  emotions  that  still  racked  his 
responsible  editors.  The  only  evidence  of  unusual 
disturbance  was  the  fact  that  he  had  invaded  the 
composing  room,  instead  of  sending  for  somebody. 
He  had  to  know  at  once,  hear  with  his  own  ears, 
the  reason  why  his  friend  Blodgett  had  been  set 
down  a  36-point  thief. 

"Now,  just  who  did  this?"  he  inquired  in  gen- 
tlemanly tones.     His  level  gaze  was  fixed  at  a 


[1713 DEADLINES 

point  midway  between  the  Old  Man  and  Jim. 

As  for  those  gentlemanly  tones,  not  an  editor 
or  printer  doubted  that  they  veiled  the  intention 
of  scalping  somebody;  or  maybe  everybody. 
"After  a  bull  like  that,  what  would  you  expect?" 
Josslyn  asked  us. 

Well,  just  who  did  this?  was  what  Mr.  Jefferson 
wanted  to  know.  The  elderly  printer  who  set  up 
the  head  was  seen  to  swallow  hard.  However, 
while  the  owner's  question  still  hung  unanswered 
there  was  a  slight  commotion  at  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  and  up  strolled  the  ancient  comma-hound, 
the  mysterious  Mr.  Donahue,  who  had  put  a 
damning  "0.  K."  upon  that  "Blodgett  Is  Thief." 

"We  knew  him  at  once,"  Josslyn  said.  *T*m 
sure  none  of  us  had  seen  him  before,  but  his  type 
was  unmistakable.  Sparse  white  hair,  tired  eyes, 
narrow,  stoop  shoulders — all  the  rest  of  it.  He 
was  a  little  fellow  with  a  queer  hobble,  and  yet  a 
remnant  of  dignity.  As  he  came  forward,  he 
didn't  seem  the  least  bit  impressed,  or  alarmed, 
or  remorseful.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and 
kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets;  didn't  even  take 
'em  out  when  he  faced  the  owner." 

It  must  have  been  worth  seeing,  that  encounter. 
Josslyn  had  by  this  time  almost  forgotten  the 
nature  of  the  "bull,"  he  was  so  interested  in  the 
contrast  between  erect,  dapper,  fully  competent 
Mr.  Jefferson  and  the  poor  little  spindleshanks 
with  his  blinking  eyes  and  his  underfed  look; 


DEADLINES £1721 

the  contrast  between  authority  and  humility; 
the  eternal  and  dreadful  contrast  between 
success  and  failure.  If  they  had  searched 
all  the  business  offices  and  second-hand  stores 
and  old  people's  homes  in  town  to  find  somebody 
.to  enact  the  part  of  Failure  in  this  morality 
play  they  couldn't  have  discovered  a  better 
actor  than  old  Johnny  Donahue.  The  only 
thing  was,  he  wasn't  at  all  aware  of  it.  He  seemed 
only  mildly  interested  in  the  show.  Apparently 
he  wanted  to  get  the  interruption  in  his  work 
over  with,  and  go  back  to  his  coop. 

When  Mr.  Jefferson  put  up  his  eye-glass  and 
studied  the  human  wisp  that  had  been  brought 
before  him,  he  appeared  a  little  nonplussed.  He 
glanced  around  at  Big  Jim,  who  said;  "This  is 
the  man,  sir,  who  read  the  proof  of  that  head. 
He  let  the  blunder  go  by;  he  put  his  initials  on 
the  proof,  meaning  *0.  K.'  Then,  you  see,  in  the 
rush  at  the  stone " 

Mr.  Jefferson  waggled  his  head  impatiently,  and 
Jim  stopped. 

"So  you  are  the  proofreader,"  said  the  owner. 

Donahue  looked  at  him  stolidly,  with  his  pink- 
rimmed  blue  eyes. 

"There's  eight  of  us  in  there  altogether,"  he 
began.  But  Big  Jim  spoke  up:  "Mr.  Jefferson 
wants  to  know  how  you  come  to  let  that  bull  go 
by.     Wake  up  now,  Johnny,  and  let's  have  the 


[173] DEADLINES 

Donahue  stood  there  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  apparently  thinking  hard.  Evidently  the 
problem  interested  hitn.  A  nice  professional  prob- 
lem, really. 

"When  I  was  editor  of  a  paper,"  he  at  last 
replied,  in  his  thin  quaver,  "I  used  to  ask  the  boys 
that.  I  dunno's  I  ever  got  the  right  answer.  I 
dunno's  that  there  is  any  answer." 

"You  were  editor  of  a  paper?"  The  owner's 
tone  was  inscrutable. 

"Yes,  sir;  the  Cherryville  Democrat.  But  o' 
course  that  doesn't  mean  I  would  be  competent 
to  edit — well,  this  paper,  for  instance.  Mine  was 
only  a  little  paper;  and  all  that  was  thirty  years 
ago." 

"Where  have  you  worked  since?" 

"Here." 

"For  thirty  years  ?"  The  owner  put  up  his  eye- 
glass again.    "As  proofreader  throughout?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Right  in  that  same  coop  there."  Old 
Johnny  winked  affectionately  at  Big  Jim. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  spectators  had  begun 
to  lose  their  shocked  appearance.  The  Old  Man 
seemed  to  be  breathing  more  freely.  And  yet — 
could  Mr.  Jefferson  let  this  thing  pass  without  at 
least  "docking"  somebody? 

He  cleared  his  throat,  took  out  a  large  mono- 
grammed  handkerchief  and  touched  his  mous- 
tached  lips  with  it. 


DEADLINES [1743 

"Thirty  years  ago,"  he  said  (and  he  seemed  to 
have  quite  forgotten  the  crowd  about  him),  "my 
father  was  publisher  of  this  paper." 

"I  know  it,"  grinned  old  Johnny.  "He  hired 
me." 

The  owner  actually  smiled. 

"Yes,  he  used  to  hire  and — er — fire  the  hands 
himself.  But — ^ahem — we  are  getting  away  from 
the  point  of  all  this.  ...  Of  course,  you  under- 
stand, Mr.  Donahue,  that  this  is  a  very  serious 
thing  to  have  happen  to  the  Press.  We  shall  be 
a  laughing-stock  for  days,  if  no  worse.  That  is 
aside  from  the  fact  that  Mr.  Blodgett  will  feel 
very  much  injured;  an  estimable  man,  Mr.  Blod- 
gett. Now  do  you  think,  Mr.  Donahue,  that  I  can 
let  the  matter  pass  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  was  old  Johnny's  reply.  "I  suppose 
I'm  canned." 

"I  was  going  to  suggest  .  .  .  ."  began  Big  Jim, 
but  Mr.  Jefferson  again  held  up  his  hand. 

"I  am  not  yet  clear,"  he  said  to  the  proof- 
reader, "how  you  could  overlook  the  error;  how 
you  could  fail  to  see  that  large  black  T ;  why  you 
didn't  change  it." 

Donahue  scratched  his  head. 

"I  been  trying  to  remember  ever  since  I  saw 
the  Market  Edition.  Now,  0'  course,  I  did  see  that 
T ;  it's  no  use  sayin*  I  didn't  see  it.  I  ain't  blind." 
He  glanced  whimsically  around  the  circle  of  listen- 
ers.   "I  guess  I  must  'a'  thought  the  editor  meant 


[1753 DEADLINES 

to  write  it  that  way.  I  guess  I  must  *a'  thought 
*Maybe  this  Blodgett  is  a  thief*  and  I  must  'a' 
thought  1  suppose  they're  willing  to  chance  a 
libel  suit.'  But,  good  Lord,  man,  what's  the  use 
bothering  about  what  I  thought?  It's  all  got 
pretty  dim  to  me,  what  editors  do  things  for.  I 
used  to  go  briskin'  around  asking  editors  why  this 
and  why  that,  but  .  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and  eyed  Mr.  Jefferson,  expecting  a 
verdict.  Everybody  expected  it.  But  Mr.  Jefferson 
only  leaned  back  against  a  truck,  and  pondered. 
Presently  Big  Jim  seemed  to  wake  up.  He  glared 
about  at  the  crowd,  and  shouted :  "Back  to  work, 
you  skulkers.  Th'  home  edition  '11  be  on  us  first 
thing  you  know." 

The  eager  listeners  faded.  Linotype  men, 
"make-ups"  and  galley  boys  ambled  off  to  their 
tasks.  There  remained  at  length  only  the  owner, 
the  Old  Man,  the  foreman,  Josslyn — and  the  cul- 
prit. Amid  this  diminished  assemblage  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son still  leaned  against  the  truck,  dangling  his 
eye-glasses.    Finally  he  said : 

"Donahue,  I  have  a  large  private  library  in  this 
building,  as  you  may  have  heard.  It  needs  cata- 
loguing.   Would  you  like  the  job  ?" 

The  old  proofreader  blinked,  glanced  at  Big 
Jim,  sidled  back  and  forth  a  moment  on  his  heels, 
and  shook  his  head. 

Upon  this,  according  to  Josslyn,  Mr.  Jefferson, 
without  uttering  another  word,  strode  down  the 


DEADLINES [1763 

aisle  between  the  machines  and  out  of  the  com- 
posing room,  his  head  lowered  in  thought.    The 
Old  Man,  looking  disappointed,  followed. 
And  old  Johnny  hobbled  back  to  his  coop. 

[VI] 
"npHATS  all,'*   said  Josslyn,  with  a  benign 

A  glance  around. 

"You  don't  mean  to  finish  with  such  an  anti- 
climax as  that,"  complained  one  of  us.  "Wasn't 
the  old  bird  fired?" 

"Of  course  not.  He  kept  at  work  until  he  died, 
three  years  ago. 

I  thrust  in  a  surmise  of  my  own:  "I  suppose 
the  remorse  over  his  blunder  pursued  him  to  the 
grave." 

Josslyn  laughed. 

"Remorse !  We  all  forgot  the  thing  within  two 
days.  Of  course,  we  printed  a  first-page  skin- 
back  :  'Regrettable  typographical  error'  and  so  on. 
But  Donahue  I'll  tell  you  what  happened  to  him: 
He  became  locally  famous.  He  was  the  man  who 
had  stood  up  to  the  boss  and  had  got  away  with  it. 
He  became  a  hero.  Everybody  forgot  what  the 
blunder  was,  but  nobody  forgot  that  something 
or  other  had  put  old  Johnny  into  the  limelight. 
No  longer  was  he  a  wraith  in  a  cave — a  ghost 
who  didn't  even  haunt  anybody — ^but  he  became 
a  personage  to  whom  people  said  *Good  morning, 
Mr.  Donahue,    m  the  elevator     He  was  pointed 


[177] DEADLINES 

out  to  visiting  printers:  That's  Donahue.  He 
don't  look  much,  but  he's  a  friend  of  the  owner's.' 
The  triumphant  comma-hound  gained  flesh,  stood 
up  straighter,  wore  better  clothes.  I've  heard, 
indeed,  that  his  work  became  practically  perfect." 

Josslyn's  listeners  looked  skeptical. 

"Now  tell  us  he  got  a  raise  on  the  strength  of 
his  bull,  and  the  yarn'll  be  complete,"  someone 
said. 

"No,  not  that,"  smiled  Josslyn.  "Not  quite  like 
that.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  did  happen:  About 
two  months  after  the  famous  post-mortem,  old 
Johnny  wandered  into  the  Old  Man's  office,  tee- 
tered on  his  heels  a  moment,  then  stuck  out  his 
jaw,  and  says  he:  'Mr.  Thain,  I've  got  a  little 
favor  to  ask;  if  you  could  spare  'em,  would  you 
kindly  let  me  have  a  couple  of  tickets  to  the 
poultry  show?" 


[179] 


DEADLINES 


[XII] 
Josslyn 


PART   ONE 


[I] 


—     '^^'^  ^^^  come  time  to  deal  adequately 
^  with    this    character,    that    has 

I  hovered  on   the  margin  of  one 

I  portrait  after  another.     It  could 

I  not  help  coming  in.    For  although 

^  =!]  Josslyn  never  obtrudes  himself 
upon  the  news-room,  he  is  in  fact  the  most 
pervasive  being  whom  we  have — unless  it  be  the 
Old  Man — the  oftenest  quoted,  the  oftenest  con- 
sulted. And  yet  there  is  no  one  about  whom  we 
have  known  less.  To  deal  adequately  with  him 
presents  difficulties. 

I  offer  acknowledgments,  first  of  all,  to  the 
Star,  who  has  sat  in  the  cigar  store  with  Josslyn 
for  many  an  hour,  and  has  drawn  from  him,  bit 
by  bit,  the  torn  manuscript  of  his  experience. 
There  is  a  sympathy  between  these  two.  The 
aging,  sweet-natured  veteran  looks  tenderly  upon 
the  boy  with  his  outbursts  and  his  foibles;  and 


DEADLINES ysoi 

the  whirling  brain  of  the  Star  seems  to  come  to 
rest,  to  rest  gladly  and  admiringly,  in  the  presence 
of  the  man  who  has  attempted  so  much,  been 
disappointed  so  often,  and  yet  retained  goodness. 

An  elderly  printer  is  another  of  my  authorities 
for  this  sketch.  He  remembers  when  Josslyn 
came  to  the  news-room.  That  was  a  long  time 
back,  alas !  The  printer  recalls  a  day  when,  stroll- 
ing into  the  editors'  zoo  to  beg  some  favor,  he 
noticed  a  "new  guy"  sitting  at  a  desk;  a  youth 
with  more  legs  than  body,  and  more  eyes  than 
anything  else.  The  printer,  a  sociable  creature, 
said  to  him :  "Say  hand  me  that  paper  over  there, 
will  you?"  and  added,  out  of  suddenly-born 
instinct :  "Thanks."  The  youth  smiled  wanly  and 
replied:  You  are  quite  welcome."  The  printer 
went  away  mysteriously  impressed. 

And  then,  there  is  a  man  once  a  staff  photog- 
rapher, but  now  grown  rich  in  the  "movies,"  who 
sometimes  relates  anecdotes  of  his  leaner  past, 
and  who  recollects  how  he  and  Josslyn  went  on 
assignments  when  both  were  young.  He  tells  of  a 
fire  which  they  "covered";  a  small  fire  in  a  hos- 
pital. It  was  out  when  they  arrived,  but  there  were 
nurses  to  be  photographed  and  interviewed.  Joss- 
lyn, says  the  photographer  with  a  chuckle,  was 
too  timid  to  cross  the  street  and  ply  the  nurses 
with  questions ;  so  the  photographer  did  this  for 
him.  And  Josslyn  wrote  out  the  notes  on  the 
train  and  brought  into  the  office  a  fairly  good 


[181] DEADLINES 

story.  The  photographer,  never  having  met  a 
timid  reporter,  questioned  Josslyn  deftly,  and 
found  out  that  he  was  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  and 
had  been  intended  for  a  professor  of  English,  but 
that  he  liked  journalism  much  better— or  at  least 
thought  he  would  like  it. 

"It's  a  tough  game,"  the  photographer  warned 
him.    "It  eats  chaps  like  you  alive." 

But  Josslyn,  he  says,  only  shook  his  head  smil- 
ingly.   As  they  all  do. 

[11] 
T^HE  STAR'S  discoveries  go  farther  back  than 
*  this ;  back  to  a  village  settlement  which  lay 
near  the  city,  but  remained  quite  isolated  from  it. 
Although  the  smoke  clouds,  growing  bigger  year 
by  year,  were  clearly  visible  on  the  horizon,  and 
at  night  the  flares  of  furnaces  furnished  a  sulky 
Aurora,  the  storms  and  fevers  of  our  turbulent 
center  never  reached  Happyville,  as  the  village 
was  called.  Josslyn's  parents  were  quiet  folk, 
with  a  fondness  for  Browning  and  Wordsworth, 
a  dislike  of  Emerson,  a  positive  horror  of  Robert 
Ingersoll.  Their  favorite  quotations  were  "God's 
in  His  heaven,"  and  "All  things  work  together 
for  good."  Their  theory  of  bringing  up  children 
was  to  shield  them  from  all  knowledge  of  evil; 
even  to  deny  them  newspapers  that  featured 
crime.  Their  idea  was  to  create  an  atmosphere 
of  love  that  would  shut  out  the  world,  to  breathe 


DEADLINES ^ 

into  their  son  and  daughter  their  own  pure  and 
gracious  natures,  and  to  shape  these  children  into 
fragile,  trustful  creatures  like  themselves.  They 
succeeded. 

"But  what  becomes  of  children  like  that  after 
the  parents  are  gone?"  asks  the  Star  with  his 
wry  smile.  Josslyn  could  answer  the  question; 
so,  perhaps,  could  the  sister  whom  he  has  always 
cherished.    (For,  it  seems,  he  has  never  married.) 

What  happened  to  Josslyn  was  that,  imme- 
diately after  he  left  college,  with  an  excellent 
degree  and  an  ability  to  write  masterful  critiques 
of  the  English  poets,  both  the  parents  died,  and 
a  different  face  was  put  upon  everything.  Good- 
bye, haloed  professorship  of  English!  It  was  a 
case  of  supplying  immediate  wants.  Fanny,  the 
sister,  went  to  work  in  a  library.  Arthur,  the 
brother,  took  his  writing  talent  into  the  nearest 
market. 

In  his  narrative  to  the  Star  he  skipped  over 
most  of  the  period  during  which  he  knocked  at 
doors.  We  find  him  suddenly  entering  a  news- 
paper office  in  search  of  a  "staff  position."  Not 
the  Press,  though,  this  first  one;  it  was  the  old 
Times,  whose  owner  in  those  days  was  a  very 
religious  man,  and  had  known  Professor  Josslyn 
in  denominational  affairs.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Josslyn 
suggested  that  Arthur  consult  this  journalistic 
friend;  we  do  not  know.  But  Arthur  sat  for  an 
hour  in  the  luxurious  ante-room  of  Ransom,  editor 


[1833 DEADLINES 

oi  the  Times,  and  then  was  received,  only  to  be 
handed  a  card  on  the  back  of  which  was  written 
the  words:  "Mr.  Blather,  I  refer  Mr.  Josslyn  to 
you." 

"Give  this  to  our  managing  editor,"  said  the 
kindly  Ransom.  "So  sorry  to  hear  of  your  emi- 
nent father's  death." 

Blather  was  kind  too.  He  gave  Arthur  a  minute 
and  a  half,  asked  him  one  question — "What  news- 
paper experience  have  you  had?" — and  regretted 
that  the  staff  was  full. 

Arthur  went  out  into  the  street,  both  downcast 
and  exhilarated.  A  mere  glance  about  the  editorial 
rooms,  a  mere  hint  of  the  subdued  professional 
bustle  of  the  place,  had  cast  over  him  the  miser- 
able shroud  of  his  timidity.  And  yet  at  the  same 
time,  it  had  given  him  a  strange  delight;  it  had 
made  him  conscious  of  something;  that  he  was 
really  meant  for  newspaper  work,  and  it  for  him. 
He  had  a  dim  feeling  of  being  at  home  in  that 
office.  He  had  intuitions  of  what  the  men  were 
doing;  the  bits  of  talk  he  had  heard,  obscured 
though  they  were  by  newspaper  dialect,  sounded 
almost  intelligible,  sounded  like  a  language  which 
he  must  have  spoken,  centuries  ago. 

He  walked  along  pondering  this,  and  presently 
found  himself  in  front  of  the  fabled  building  of 
the  Press.  Some  instinct  guided  him  into  the 
door;  a  queer  pressure  upon  his  brain,  a  sudden 


DEADLINES y84j 

incomprehensible  daring,  made  him  go  up  the 
elevator  and  ask  for  the  managing  editor. 

He  sat  down  in  an  ante-room  and  under  the  eyes 
of  an  amused  stenographer  filled  out  a  form: 
"Name,"  "age,"  "married"  and  "position  desired." 
Under  this  last  heading  Josslyn  wrote  "editorial 
writer";  which  seemed  to  be  the  only  position 
suitable  to  a  literary  person. 

After  considerable  delay  a  buzzer  sounded  at 
the  desk  of  the  stenographer,  who  said  to  Arthur : 
"Mr.  Thain  will  see  you  now."  Josslyn  started. 
At  the  same  instant  the  door  opened,  and  a  keen- 
faced  youth,  wearing  an  eye-shade  and  looking 
very  angry,  burst  out,  ignoring  Josslyn,  who 
slipped  past  him  through  the  door. 

At  a  large  and  badly  scratched  cherry-wood  desk 
sat  a  bulky  person  about  thirty  years  old  (but 
looking  older,  Josslyn  says),  who  wore  spec- 
tacles and  had  a  ruddy  complexion,  and  looked 
quite  as  angry  as  the  young  man  who  had  just 
gone  out.  He  bent  upon  Arthur  Josslyn  a  piercing 
and  surprised  stare.  He  looked  at  the  filled-out 
form. 

"What  makes  you  think  you  could  write  edi- 
torials ?"  he  demanded  without  preliminary. 

"I  don't  know,"  Arthur  replied. 

The  managing  editor's  mouth  twitched.  He 
flipped  the  form  between  his  thick  fingers,  whis- 
tled gently  and  kept  on  staring  at  the  limp  but 
attentive  young  man  before  him. 


[185  1 DEADLINES 

"Supposing  William  D.  Frost  should  drop  dead 
on  the  street,  what  would  you  write  about  him?" 

(Frost,  Josslyn  says,  was  then  the  most  promi- 
nent banker  in  the  city.) 

The  applicant  hesitated.  Had  he  known  it, 
more  than  the  mere  question  of  writing  editorials 
hung  upon  his  answer.  The  truth  was  that  Thain, 
a  man  of  lightning  impulses,  had  already  made  up 
his  mind  to  hire  Josslyn,  not  as  an  expert,  but  as 
a  cub.  He  had  seen  in  the  youngster*s  face  a 
sincerity,  an  alertness,  even  a  power  that  he 
wanted  to  harness.  Josslyn  did  not  guess  this; 
nor  did  he  know  that  his  answer  to  the  question 
just  put  would  reveal  whether  he  was  genuine; 
that  if  he  tried  a  pretense  of  knowing  about 
William  D.  Frsot  he  was  doomed. 

Well,  Josslyn  blushed  fiery  red  (as  he  admits) 
and  replied: 

"I'm  sorry.    I  never  even  heard  that  name." 

Thain  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
laughed,  a  bit  triumphantly.  Straightening  up, 
he  turned  his  spectacles  once  more  upon  Josslyn 
and  said: 

"Suppose  you  try  reporting.  Twelve  a  week  to 
start." 

The  weird  feeling  that  all  this  was  familiar, 
that  he  had  heard  it  all  before,  seized  Josslyn 
again.  Reporting!  The  word  had  dazzling  sug- 
gestions, it  had  terrors,  but  it  was  delicious.  He 
answered  weakly : 


DEADLINES ysej 

"111  try  it." 

He  heard  Thain  call  out :  "Miss  T ^,  take  Mr. 

Josslyn  to  Mr.  Franklin." 

And  the  stenographer,  more  amused-looking 
than  ever,  conducted  him  to  the  youth  with  the 
eye-shade,  and  so  into  journalism. 


[HI] 

FROM  Happyville  to  the  city ;  this  was  the  leap 
Josslyn  had  made. 

Imagine  it.  He  did  not  know  that  justice  is 
not  only  blind,  but  corrupt  and  often  ghastly.  He 
had  never  been  told  that  politics,  as  then  prac- 
ticed in  the  city  (if  not  now)  was  mainly  a  bestial 
struggle  for  salaried  office,  and  that  most  politi- 
cians were  degraded  wire  pullers,  liars  and  thieves, 
who  would  stoop  to  anything,  betray  any  kind  of 
trust,  to  gain  an  advantage.  He  had  never  heard 
that  criminals  bought  their  freedom,  that  innocent 
men  were  hanged  in  order  to  fatten  the  records 
of  prosecutors,  that  women  were  bought  and  sold 
by  the  police,  that  landlords  let  tenants  rot  in 
order  to  save  a  few  dollars,  that  buildings  were 
falsely  constructed  and  that  when  they  collapsed 
the  victims  were  cheated  out  of  damages.  Those 
were  only  a  few  of  the  things  he  did  not  know — 
nor  worry  about.  He  liked  the  city.  The  moving 
processions  of  people  and  vehicles  in  the  streets 
had  an  air  of  happiness.    Rapidly  he  grew  less 


[187  3 DEADLINES 

timid.  He  held  his  head  up  and  smiled  at  people, 
and  they  returned  his  smile. 

Sometimes  he  was  puzzled,  sometimes  shocked. 
But  faithfully  he  repeated  the  Happyville  motto 
"God's  in  His  heaven,"  and  at  such  times,  high 
in  the  blue  above  the  gigantic  smoking  buildings, 
up  there  beyond  the  tangles  of  wires  and  scaffold- 
ing and  water-tanks,  he  fancied  he  could  actually 
see  God,  serene  in  His  heaven,  disposing  of  mat- 
ters to  the  ultimate  advantage  of  everybody. 

The  Star  mentioned  this  with  a  grimace. 

[IV] 

IN  those  days  the  city  was  considerably  smaller. 
It  had  much  the  same  landmarks;  that  is,  the 
stock  yards  smoked  over  here,  and  the  steel  mills 
over  there,  and  the  tall  buildings  stood  by  the 
lake,  and  the  river  wound  itself  three  ways, 
through  extraordinary  aisles  of  factories  and 
warehouses.  But  there  were  great  areas  of  land, 
now  covered  with  apartment  houses  or  flat  roofs, 
which  at  that  time  were  merely  expanses  of  clay 
and  chickweed,  or  bloomed  with  the  black-eyed 
Susan  and  wild  geranium,  or  were  tousled  with 
scrub  oak  trees.  The  city  was  a  congeries  of  vil- 
lages, swarming  industrial  villages,  rather  than  a 
metropolis.  The  immense  strides  toward  metro- 
politanism  had  not  yet  fairly  begun.  Nowhere 
was  to  be  found  that  glossy,  opulent  appearance 
that  so  much  of  the  city  wears  at  present.   The 


DEADLINES ussj 

downtown  buildings,  for  the  most  part,  were  only 
six  or  eight  stories  high,  and  fairly  dingy. 
Outlying  districts  gave  birth  mainly  to  wooden 
residences,  lining  long,  monotonous  streets. 
Everything  seemed  temporary,  neglected — and 
yet  bursting  with  ambition. 

Life  was  terrific.  The  great  inrush  of  foreigners 
had  reached  a  peak.  The  jargon  of  speech,  the 
jostling  of  antagonistic  races,  the  introduction 
of  weird  ethnic  blends  from  the  utmost  corners 
of  Europe,  made  the  city  continually  more  won- 
derful, but  more  terrible.  Strange  crimes,  strange 
customs,  made  the  daily  page  of  the  city's  history 
a  bizarre  placard  shocking  to  the  staid,  half- 
Puritan  older  residents,  mainly  of  New  England 
stock.  Big  conflicts  and  contrasts  were  every- 
where; life  was  fought  out  in  the  open.  Openly, 
aldermen  stole  streets  and  alleys,  contractors 
grafted,  bankers  embezzled,  foreigners  pursued 
Old  World  feuds,  railroads  killed  people  at  grade 
crossings,  and  blackmailers  stole  children.  But 
the  "decent  element"  was  waging  war  on  these 
things;  and  there  were  men  who  exposed  the 
grafters  and  embezzlers,  and  hanged  the  mur- 
derers, and  began  the  education  of  the  foreigners. 
There,  at  the  dawn  of  the  new  century,  dwelt  side 
by  side  the  extremes  of  coarseness  and  refinement, 
ignorance  and  culture,  generosity  and  greed. 

Through  the  swarming  streets,  along  the 
wooden  sidewalks  bordering  these  still-blooming 


1189] DEADLINES 

prairies,  down  festering  alleys,  in  and  out  of 
hospitals  and  morgues,  went  Arthur  Josslyn  in 
pursuit  of  news. 

Sometimes  another  reporter  would  say  to  him : 
"What  a  hell-hole  the  city  is,  ain't  it?"  But 
Josslyn  would  reply,  wondering,  "I  don't  think 
it's  so  bad." 

Usually  he  thought  it  was  glorious.  At  least, 
it  was  thrillingly  new.  He  began  to  recognize 
here  and  there  signs  that  humanity  has  faults; 
but  nothing,  so  far,  destroyed  his  certainty  that 
the  majority  of  men  were  well-meaning.  Natur- 
ally he  discovered  as  much  good  as  bad,  and  at 
this  stage  of  his  growth  the  good  things — oh, 
such  as  a  policeman  saving  a  group  of  school- 
children from  a  runaway — made  the  greater 
impression  upon  him.  Deep  within  him  lay  a  love 
of  people  that  softened  in  his  eyes  the  brutal 
gestures  of  the  city,  and  there  burned  steadily 
in  him  a  flame  of  poetry  that  lit  his  spirit  on  his 
worst  of  days. 

Lake  ships,  sullenly  followed  their  tugs  out 
into  the  white-caps  of  the  lake;  the  scarlet  flare 
of  open  furnaces  at  night;  the  wonderful  rush  of 
a  long  train  over  a  viaduct;  the  boulevards,  with 
their  processions  of  vehicles  under  shade  trees; 
the  West  Side  blocks  swarming  with  children,  and 
a  tall  cathedral  bell  sending  down  its  blessing; 
religious  processions  in  the  foreign  quarters;  an 
old,  cupolaed  mansion,  brooding  far  back  among 


DEADLINES yao] 

maples ;  a  glimpse  of  a  tall  spire,  with  the  sunset 
on  it — such  things  as  these  Josslyn  took  home 
with  him  from  his  daily  rounds. 

In  the  office  he  was  a  cub — a  promising  cub. 
No  one  knew  that  he  loved  everybody;  although 
some  did  know  that  he  scribbled  verse.   The  Old 

-  Man  heard  about  it,  and  remarked  curtly  to 
Franklin,  "Break  him  in."  It  was  done.  His 
salary  was  advanced  two  dollars  a  week — and  his 

f  leisure  was  reduced.  He  was  hustled  here;  hus- 
tled there.  No  more  reverie  for  him.  He  was 
sent  out  on  impossible  pursuits  of  impossible 
mysteries ;  compelled  to  ring  hostile  door-bells  and 
freeze  on  inhospitable  front  porches;  ask  crude 
questions  of  scholarly  spinsters;  watch  heart- 
broken women  identify  relatives  at  the  county 
morgue ;  demand  of  berserk  city  officials  the  truth 
about  their  resignations;  interview  indignant 
college  presidents  about  "freak"  questions  of  the 
hour ;  travel  mile  after  mournful  mile  upon  street 
cars;  freeze,  starve,  and  keep  hopeless  vigils  for 
news  that  did  not  happen ;  spend  his  own  money 
to  the  last  cent  on  assignments  and  receive  censure 

tfor  spending  so  much. 

He  was  being  "broken  in."  The  appraisers  had 
determined  that  he  was  metal.  Week  by  week  he 
was  assaying  higher  value.  But  he  remained 
essentially  the  same  Josslyn. 


[^ DEADLINES 

[VI] 

FROM  this  memoir  and  that,  I  can  easily  con- 
struct the  scene  of  Josslyn's  early  endeavors. 
The  news-room  was  in  the  same  place,  but  it 
housed  several  departments  since  banished,  and 
was  crowded  beyond  belief.  The  Old  Man  spent  his 
mornings  there,  growling  and  creaking  at  a  desk 
by  a  window;  his  private  office  he  used  in  the 
afternoons  only.  A  good  many  of  the  reporters 
were  denied  desks,  and  did  their  typing  on  a  low 
shelf  that  ran  around  the  walls.  There  was  hardly 
gangway.  Toward  press-time  the  noise  must  have 
been  awful.  Add  to  the  staff  numerous  callers, 
who  had  no  place  to  wait  except  among  the  desks ; 
add  especially  the  parasites  of  the  sporting  depart- 
ment, which  had  a  turbulent  corner  of  its  own, 
and  fancy  it  all !  Three  chairs  near  the  sporting 
editor's  desk  were  nearly  always  occupied  by 
rising  prize  fighters,  who  glared,  shuffled  their 
feet,  and  spat.  There  was  usually  a  group  of  press- 
agents  telling  someone  foul  stories. 

In  this  place  the  gentle  Josslyn  began  his 
career;  writing  his  maiden  stories  upon  a  shelf, 
amid  all  that  din,  and  with  volleys  of  strange  talk 
in  his  ears. 

The  staff  was  a  rare  mixture;  it  was  "the  pick 
of  the  town."  There  was  Billy  Fleming,  immoral, 
witty,  and  pock-marked,  a  writer  of  ribald  verse 
and  graceful  obituaries ;  Tom  Griggs,  the  sad-eyed 
"police  man,"  connoisseur  of  corpses  and  motives ; 


DEADLINES [i92] 

those  two  drunkards,  Fox  and  Jones;  "little  Ed." 
Moore,  a  tramp  reporter  said  to  have  been  part 
Mexican ;  the  debonaire  Ernest  Tripe,  whose  pay 
check  was  always  drawn  in  advance ;  and  various 
less  memorable  beings.  A  quaint,  smeared,  turbu- 
lent company  of  reprobates,  full  of  fight  and 
liquor,  desperate  in  their  pursuit  of  news,  ignorant 
of  all  the  modern  "ethics  of  the  profession,"  and 
clever  as  the  devil  himself.  It  must  have  taken 
months  for  Josslyn  even  to  arrive  on  passable 
terms  with  them.  I  picture  him  laboring  at  his 
typewriter,  trying  to  shape  his  stories  according 
to  the  iron-bound  model  of  the  time,  and  conscious 
of  the  grins  and  whispers  of  those  devils  behind 
his  back.  I  imagine  him  timorously  submitting 
his  copy  to  the  fiery-tempered  Franklin.  I  see  him 
sitting  silently  in  a  comer,  while  the  copy  desk 
slaughtered  his  phrases.  But  still  more  vividly 
I  vision  him  amid  a  group  of  those  tobacco-spitting 
pirates,  listening  after  hours  to  their  memoirs, 
their  theories,  and  their  advice.  For  they  did  give 
him  advice,  I  am  sure.  No  doubt  they  were  even 
kind  to  him.  There  is  a  sort  of  lofty  and  casual 
concern  for  the  neophyte  in  the  most  abandoned 
and  sophisticated  of  reporters.  And  besides, 
Josslyn  always  had  a  vein  of  good  nature  dis- 
arming to  the  cynic. 

As  for  Franklin,  he  was  gentle  to  his  "cub." 
They  saw  quite  a  bit  of  each  other,  for  they  two 
were  always  the  first  to  report  in  the  morning; 


[1931 DEADLINES 

and  Franklin,  groaning  and  cursing,  would  start 
slashing  the  morning  paper  with  his  long  scissors, 
and  would  have  Josslyn  help  him.  One  morning, 
Josslyn  recalls,  the  city  editor  delivered  this  lec- 
ture from  the  corner  of  his  mouth : 

"Kid,  I  like  your  work,  but  you  don't  belong 
here.  You're  too  sensitive.  You're  too  well  edu- 
cated. .  .  .  Gimme  that  pile  of  clippings.  . 
.  .  Thanks.  .  .  .  Business'U  kill  you  if  you 
keep  on.  Look  at  me,  hauled  out  of  bed  at  five 
every  morning;  rush  to  my  desk,  stay  there  till 
last  dog's  hung.  Fight,  fight,  fight,  all  the  time. 
Fight  with  the  staff,  with  the  readers  of  the  paper, 
with  the  town  itself.  Damn  the  town !  It  would 
get  on  anybody's  nerves.  .  .  .  Get  a  quieter 
job,  where  you  can  write  those  poems  of  yours. 
Nothing  in  this  boiler-shop  grind.  .  .  ." 

The  Old  Man  opened  his  door  just  then.  Per- 
haps he  had  overheard  some  of  the  tirade,  for 
that  afternoon  Franklin  approached  Josslyn  and 
blurted : 

"Don't  take  too  seriously  what  I  said  this  morn- 
ing, r  was  sore  at  the  world,  that's  all.  You've 
got  a  nice  style,  and  you'll  get  on  in  the  business 
all  right." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Jpsslyn,  as  he  had  learned  to 
reply. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  Old  Man  prized 
Josslyn,  in  a  way.  He  never  spoke  a  word  directly 
to  him,  and  yet  Josslyn  had  a  singular  feeling 


DEADLINES n94i 

that  he  was  watched,  and  not  unkindly.  More 
than  once  he  suspected  that  the  assignments 
Franklin  gave  him  were  inspired  by  the  managing 
editor.  On  one  occasion  Josslyn  was  sent  out  of 
town  with  a  group  of  aldermen  "junketing"  to 
New  York.  He  muffed  the  assignment  terribly, 
and  returned  to  the  office  in  a  tremor.  But 
nothing  was  said  until  the  young  reporter  took 
courage  to  ask  Franklin,  "Just  how  badly  did  I 
fail  on  that  trip?"  The  city  editor  pushed  up  his 
eye-shade,  looked  at  Josslyn  in  his  melancholy 
way,  and  said,  gruffly,  "It  doesn't  matter  now. 
But  I'll  tell  you  if  it  had  been  anybody  else  the 
Old  Man  would  have  canned  him  without  notice." 
Whence  arose  this  interest,  this  semi-benevolent 
interest,  which  Thain,  formidable  and  ruthless 
being  that  he  was,  felt  in  the  shrinking  amateur? 
It  was  more  unusual  in  those  days  than  now,  for 
it  was  said  of  the  Old  Man  that  when  compara- 
tively young  he  had  "no  favorites  and  no  friends." 
He  was  a  battler,  like  his  creation  Franklin,  with 
his  hand  against  the  world.  There  is,  though,  no 
accounting  for  affections ;  and  it  was  to  be  demon- 
strated that  the  Old  Man  loved  Josslyn  like  a  son ; 
loved  him  at  first  sight,  as  one  might  say,  rejoiced 
like  any  father  at  Josslyn's  later  success,  and 
grieved  like  one  when  at  last 


ri95]  DEADLINES 

[VII] 

AFTER  he  had  been  on  the  staff  five  years 
Jossljm  was  made  city  editor.  Franklin 
in  a  burst  of  fury,  had  resigned.  The  Old  Man 
said  to  Josslyn,  "Take  the  desk,  and  let's  see  how 
long  you  can  hold  it."  He  did  not  reveal  that  he 
had  offered  the  post  to  several  of  the  older  men, 
and  that  they  had  excused  themselves.  Josslyn, 
elate,  apprehensive,  the  most  competent  of  them 
all  but  the  most  humble,  took  the  desk. 

A  good  many  of  the  piratical  crew  still  remained. 
After  having  been  Josslyn's  comrades  and  critics, 
they  now  found  themselves  his  subordinates. 
There  was  no  complaint.  They  regarded  Josslyn 
with  that  curious  mixture  of  respect,  pity,  and 
disdain  which  they  would  have  shown  toward  any 
other  city  editor.  ("Little  Ed"  Moore  said:  "I 
was  offered  the  job,  but  my  God!  d'ye  think  I'd 
take  it?  Under  the  Old  Man?").  They  liked 
Josslyn.  They  rallied  about  him— good  old  pirate 
crew.  Perhaps  the  assignments  he  gave  them 
were  not  always  to  their  taste;  no  matter,  they 
covered  these  assignments  and  stolidly  wrote  the 
results.  Perhaps  Josslyn  made  mistakes  in  orders, 
charted  the  wrong  course.  The  old  hands  merely 
left  the  office  humming,  and  got  the  news  after 
their  own  fashion.  There  grew  up  a  warm  loyalty 
to  Josslyn.  He  had  lost  none  of  his  gentility 
during  the  years  of  reporting.  He  could  always 
see  the  other  fellow's  side  of  an  argument.    Often 


DEADLINES ysej 

he  forgave  a  man  when  he  got  drunk.  Often  when 
the  Old  Man  told  him  to  discharge  such-and-such 
a  scapegrace,  Josslyn  forgot  to  discharge  him. 

In  the  meantime  he  found  that,  having  served 
one  apprenticeship,  he  was  now  serving  another. 
He  was  being  "broken  in"  again.  Not  so  much 
now  by  contact  with  the  city  and  its  people,  but 
by  the  mechanisms  of  the  office,  by  the  emergen- 
cies of  his  work,  by  the  thousands  of  shocks  and 
griefs  that  went  with  responsibility.  The  com- 
parative ease  of  mind  that  is  the  underling's  only 
recompense  for  being  an  underling  began  to  leave 
him.  The  little  flame  of  interest  with  which  he 
used  to  await  his  morning  assignment  was  now 
denied.  He  awoke  each  day  quivering  with  pres- 
science  of  what  he  must  face.  No  day  was  ever  the 
same  as  its  predecessor.  No  problem  ever  arose 
in  precisely  the  same  guise.  The  incalculable 
world  prepared  for  Josslyn  incalculable  emergen- 
cies and  pitfalls.  Glory  and  disgrace  both  lay  in 
wait  for  him  at  his  desk.  He  was  satisfied  to 
escape  disgrace.  He  was  satisfied  to  end  the  day 
without  a  reprimand  from  the  Old  Man,  or  without 
some  failure  too  abject  even  for  comment.  He 
was  alternately  elate  with  hope  and  smothered  in 
shame.  He  was  a  poet  compelled  to  face  a  despot 
— and  to  be  one. 

This  growing  torment  received  a  new  compli- 
cation when  he  moved  to  a  suburb.  It  was  a 
charming  suburb,  more  beautiful  than  Happy ville ; 


[1971 DEADLINES 

a  forest  spot,  with  great  elms  overshadowing  the 
streets,  and  with  the  children  of  the  forest,  ferns, 
flowers  and  wild  creatures,  still  occupying  the 
glades.  Fanny,  the  sister,  had  insisted  upon 
moving  thither  from  the  city  flat.  The  change 
improved  Josslyn's  physical  health,  but  the  coun- 
try drew  away  a  lot  of  the  affection  and  confidence 
that  he  had  bestowed  upon  the  city.  In  its  high 
seasons,  with  its  gorgeous  flowerings,  it  made  the 
city  hideous  by  contrast;  and  at  its  saddest  of 
times  it  had  a  repose,  a  sanity,  that  made  Josslyn 
more  and  more  regretful  to  leave  it,  even  for  a 
few  hours.  Sunday  afternoons  and  holidays  came 
to  be  colored  with  regret  and  foreboding;  regret 
that  so  perfect  tranquillity  could  not  be  kept  just 
a  little  longer;  foreboding  of  the  new  plunge, 
tomorrov/,  into  chaos. 

He  knew  it  to  be  chaos,  even  though  he  tasted 
there  a  bitter  intoxicant.  Born  newspaper  man 
though  he  was,  carried  beyond  himself  by  news, 
subject  to  all  the  ecstasies  of  that  weird  and 
perishable  form  of  experience,  there  was  still  his 
temperament,  one-half  of  which  craved  peace, 
craved  even  more  the  expression  of  the  wistful 
poetry  in  him.  He  managed  somehow  to  strangle 
these  more  feminine  impulses  while  he  was  busy 
with  the  affairs  of  "the  desk";  that  is,  for  all 
those  years  he  managed  to  do  so.  But  though 
strangled,  they  were  not  dead,  and  they  often  con- 
fused him,  rising  before  his  eyes  at  inopportune 


DEADLINES y98j 

times.  The  Old  Man  was  keen  to  detect  these 
waverings  in  his  young  city  editor.  He  seemed 
to  sense  them  out  while  sitting  in  his  room. 
Presently  he  would  appear,  perhaps  clutching  a 
copy  of  an  opposition  paper. 

"Scooped  again  I  Really,  Josslyn  .  .  .  Didn't 
you  have  this  affair  down  in  the  assignment  book? 
Well,  how  can  you  expect  to  cover  advance  dates 
without  putting  them  down?  Depend  on  your 
memory;  is  that  it?  .  .  .  Well,  for  goodness'  sake, 
get  a  little  of  the  thing  written  for  the  last 
Final." 

Exit,  with  his  shoulders  high. 

Or  this: 

"Josslyn,  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you.  I'm 
doing  my  best  to  build  you  up  into  an  efficient 
newspaper  man.  Sometimes  I  think  you'll  never 
make  it.  Sometimes  I  think  you're  writing  those 
— er — pesky  poems,  in  your  head.  Come  out  of 
it.    Poetry'U  get  you  nowhere." 

"I'm  not  writing  poetry,  Mr.  Thain." 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  poetry,  it's  love.  If  you're  in 
love,  for  God's  sake,  get  married.  That's  the  only 
cure.  And  get  a  blonde;  they're  safer." 

He  would  follow  this  with  things  that  would 
make  Josslyn  blush.  Josslyn  believes  the  Old 
Man  liked  to  see  him  blush.  Thain  was,  no  doubt, 
puzzled  and  plagued  by  this  temperament,  which 
partly  mocked  him  with  what  he  himself  had  been, 
and  partly  eluded  his  analysis.    He  always  posed 


[199] DEADLINES 

before  Josslyn  as  a  bitter  cynic,  pagan,  hater  of 
all  religions,  and  defier  of  all  conventions.  He 
usually  held  up  to  the  youth  a  harsh,  sordid  con- 
ception of  life,  and  a  stern  view  of  journalism, 
which  he  said  was  an  exact  science.  This  was  his 
way  of  ^'building  up  a  spine  in  the  fellow" ;  and  it 
worked — for  a  good  while.  But  we  all  think  that, 
while  he  was  administering  the  bitter  tonic,  he 
laughed  strangely  in  private.  He  was  cute.  Once 
when  he  and  Josslyn  had  worked  together  prepar- 
ing a  tremendously  hot  story,  and  Josslyn  was  just 
leaving  the  stone,  collarless  and  with  flying  hair, 
the  Old  Man  spoke  a  loud  aside  to  Big  Jim,  the 
foreman:  "There  goes  a  great  newspaper  man." 
Intend  Josslyn  to  overhear  it?  Surely.  And  he 
knew,  of  course,  that  the  young  man  would  carry 
away  that  immense  compliment  with  him,  and 
that  the  yeast  would  work  and  work ;  and  that,  for 
a  week  at  least,  it  would  fill  him  with  a  sense  of 
high  enterprise. 

But  it  was  the  Old  Man's  weakness  at  that 
period  that  he  grimly  refused  to  know  anything 
about  the  private  lives  of  his  staff.  So  he  knew 
nothing  about  Josslyn's  house,  or  about  his  flowers. 
And  he  did  not  know  that,  when  walking  home 
in  the  evening  along  the  elm-shaded  streets  of  the 
village,  Josslyn  looked  back  with  vague  disgust 
upon  what  he  had  done. 

He  was  conscious  only  of  a  grey  retrospect,  out 
of  which  some  incidents  stood  sharply;  incidents 


DEADLINES [200] 

whose  effect  upon  his  inner  structure  he  did  not 
fully  understand.  Such  as — well,  such  as  the 
story  of  an  old  murder  trial  dug  up  twenty  years 
late  to  confront  the  innocent  children  of  the  for- 
gotten murderer.  Complaint  from  the  widow. 
Reference  of  complaint  to  the  Old  Man.  Josslyn 
exonerated.  A  feeling  of  regret,  tempered  by 
elation  over  having  scooped  the  Journal. 

Or  such  as  the  publication  of  a  wrong  picture; 
the  picture  of  the  twin  brother  of  an  accused 
thief.  Twin  brother  a  grocer.  Grocery  ruined. 
The  wrong  twin  writes  misspelled  letter,  hinting 
at  libel  suit.  Josslyn  sends  Griggs,  the  paper's 
best  "fixer,''  to  settle  the  matter.  Griggs  settles 
it  for  seventy-five  dollars.  Immense  relief  on  the 
part  of  Josslyn;  coupled  with  scruples. 

Moral  complexities,  these.  They  don't,  after  all, 
get  to  the  bottom  of  Josslyn.  There  at  the  bottom 
was  his  instinct  to  bestow  affection,  to  condone,  to 
work  for  the  happiness  of  everybody.  Now  this 
is  impossible  in  an  executive.  He  must  decide 
sharp  issues,  and  always  someone  gets  hurt.  Let 
there  be  a  dispute  between  a  reporter  and  a  copy 
reader.  Josslyn  must  decide  it  somehow.  Some- 
one injured.  Both  men  dear  to  him.  Someone 
must  subside,  with  a  flushed  face  and  a  biting 
of  lips,  and,  looking  at  him,  Josslyn  is  wretched. 
Perhaps  he  decided  wrongfully.  He  takes  the 
doubt  home  with  him. 


[201] DEADLINES 

Josslyn  told  the  Star  that  of  all  things  most 
abhorrent  to  him  were  the  quarrels.  Next  to 
this,  the  eternal  naggings  about  salaries.  The 
requests  for  increases  had  to  go  to  the  Old  Man 
for  decision,  but  they  always  came  to  Josslyn 
first. 

The  symptoms?  Josslyn  tells  them  with  a 
shudder. 

A  reporter  or  copy  reader  comes  to  "the  desk" 
after  the  First  Final  has  gone.  He  hovers  at  the 
desk.    The  appeal  in  his  eye  is  unmistakable. 

"Well,  John." 

"Ahem I've  been  working  here  almost 

two  years  now^  Mr.  Josslyn.  .  .  I  .  .  ." 

"It's  about  your  salary,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  sir;  that's  it."  (At  other  times  he  may 
call  Josslyn  "A.  J.,"  but  now  it  is  "sir.")  He  goes 
on :  "I  thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  mind  speaking 
to  the  Old  Man  about  me." 

A  pause.  Josslyn  is  fairly  sick  He  looks  down 
at  his  desk,  twiddles  his  pencil,  and  says:  "I'll 
do  what  I  can,  John." 

The  poor,  hang-dog  chap,  the  work-worn,  bank- 
rupt ne'er-do-well,  brightens  pitifully.  Ah,  but 
Josslyn  is  sorry  for  him!  A  "raise"?  Josslyn 
would  give  him  a  doubled,  a  trebled  salary.  Josslyn 
starts  to  speak,  but  gulps  it  back.  He  must  not 
"commit  himself".  John  the  reporter  goes  away, 
whistling. 


DEADLINES [2023 

That's  all.  Just  things  like  that.  Nothing  at 
all  to  an  iron  man,  such  as  an  executive  ought  to 
be.  Executives  should  sit  at  desks,  full  of  blood 
and  confidence,  and  shoot  back  defiant  things  when 
people  make  requests.  And  they  ought  to  go  home 
with  hearty  step,  certain  they  have  done  right, 
and  with  some  such  thought  as  '^Greatest  editor 
of  greatest  paper  on  earth;  's  what  I  am." 

Lots  of  them  do. 

[VIII] 

PICTURE  Josslyn  on  a  tranquil  spring  morning, 
going  to  work  with  the  sweetness  of  flowers  in 
his  nostrils,  with  the  budding  trees  whispering  to 
him  a  mood  of  peace.  And  then  suppose  him  enter- 
ing the  office  and  being  greeted  by :  "Boss,  there's 
a  four-eleven  fire  in  the  Yards.  Six  bodies  taken 
out.  It's  been  burning  since  six  o'clock.  What 
shall  we  do?"  Or,  "The  bureau  has  just  'phoned 
Marshall  Field  is  dying.  Shall  I  get  somebody 
started  with  the  obit?  Who  do  you  want  to  go  up 
to  the  house?"  Or  picture  him  with  big  news 
"breaking"  and  three  of  his  best  men  sick.  Or 
suppose  him  quietly  opening  his  morning  mail  and 
finding  in  it  a  notice  of  a  $100,000  libel  suit.  Or 
fancy  him  starting  to  close  his  desk  at  night,  and 
picking  up  a  rival  to  discover  a  triumphant  "beat." 
Or  consider  him  a  moment  when  griefs  are  in  a 
lull,  when  he  gazes  about  the  office  in  reverie,  and 
then a  voice  at  his  desk,  the  voice  of  his  best 


[203  3 DEADLINES 

reporter:  "Boss,  I'm  sorry,  but  Fve  got  a  better 
offer  from  the  Globe.    I'm  leaving  Saturday." 

Reader,  not  of  the  profession,  these  things  mean 
little  to  you.  But  to  Josslyn  every  one  of  these 
surprises,  these  threats  or  disappointments,  con- 
tains poison.  And  for  our  Jossljoi  every  one  was 
magnified  by  his  imagination.  Was  he  "scooped  ?" 
He  saw  the  black  type  of  his  rival  dancing  jigs 
upon  the  news-stands,  he  saw  thousands  grasping 
for  the  story  missing  in  so  ghastly  fashion  from 
the  Press,  he  imagined  a  murmur  of  comment  on 
the  streets,  in  the  trains,  and  himself  skulking  in 
by-ways.  Was  he  sued?  He  previsioned  a  stem 
jury  handing  down  the  verdict  of  thousands,  the 
Old  Man  frantic,  the  paper  bankrupt,  himself  out- 
cast, the  city  pointing  a  huge  collective  finger. 

But  correspondingly  vivid  his  triumphs.  Ah, 
yes !  to  conquer  them  all,  to  breathe  deeply  for  a 
moment  over  what  he  and  his  men  had  done — 
even  Josslyn's  nature  had  rich  delights  over  that. 
Delights  lasting  sometimes  an  hour  or  two.  Then 
the  dark  cloud  of  premonition,  the  goad  of  new 
emergencies.  Into  it  again.  "Josslyn,  Moore  on 
the  'phone ;  murder  in  Little  Hell " 

And  the  great  clock  upon  the  wall,  never  stop- 
ping never  relenting ;  the  clock  that  makes  slaves 
of  us  all.  .  .  . 

Despite  everything,  he  grew.  Certain  motions 
and  mental  processes  became  automatic.  His 
adjustment  to  the  swift  and  deadly  requirements 


DEADLINES [204) 

of  his  job  became  easier.  The  shrinking,  appre- 
hensive Josslyn  still  dwelt  in  him,  but  over  this 
seemed  to  grow  another  personality  with  an  appar- 
ent defiance  of  disaster.  Long  ago  it  had  become 
unnecessary  for  the  older  men  to  tell  him  what  to 
do;  they  now  respectfully  sought  his  judgment. 
It  began  to  be  whispered  about  that  he  was  "one 
of  the  best  city  editors  in  town."  The  slim  body 
and  the  gentle,  sensitive  mind  had  seemingly  with- 
stood the  efforts  of  fate,  the  Old  Man  and  the  devil 
to  crush  them.  And  not  only  the  office,  but  the 
city  itself  and  all  it  could  send  lay  at  Josslyn's 
feet.  The  great  city  roared  about  him,  challenging 
him  with  its  brutal  voices,  preparing  for  him 
sudden  horrors,  ringing  his  telephone  with  the 
message :  "Ah, — ha,  Josslyn !  See  what's  happened 
now."  But  he  seemed  to  be  a  match  for  the  city. 
Nothing  it  could  do  but  would  find  him  ready. 
With  a  stroke  he  could  turn  its  challenges  and 
fierce  taunts,  its  outbursts,  the  jets  from  its  cal- 
drons, to  serve  the  paper.  And,  daily,  he  seemed 
to  grow  calmer.  The  boys  said  he  was  "hard- 
boiled."    Josslyn,  the  master!  Well,  well! 

Then  one  day  he  went  in  to  the  Old  Man  and 
said :  "Mr.  Thain,  Til  have  to  stop.  I'll  have  to 
give  up  the  city  desk.  It's  got  the  best  of  me. 
I 1  just  can't " 

And  Josslyn  fainted  away,  right  there  on  the 
Old  Man's  Brussels  rug. 


[205] DEADLINES 

The  Old  Man  and  the  office  boy  raised  him  to 
an  old  lounge  in  the  "private  room,"  and  they  inex- 
pertly poured  water  on  him,  and  the  staff  gathered 
around.  I  was  there  myself.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  quaint  surprised  tenderness  with  which  the 
Old  Man  gazed,  blinking,  upon  his  downfallen 
greyhound  of  a  city  editor,  and  how  he  said, 
oratorically :  "My  Lord,  I  guess  a  six  months' 
vacation  won't  be  too  much  for  this  boy  .... 
The  best  city  editor  I  ever  ....  He's  just 
simply  done  himself." 

But  when  Josslyn  opened  his  eyes,  this  speech 
changed  to :  "Billy,  fetch  a  cab  ....  You,  sir,  go 
home  and  take  a  hot  drink.  The  rest  of  you,  why 
the  devil  aren't  you  working?" 

[IX] 

JOSSLYN,  grey  man  of  the  copy  desk,  do  you 
think  of  those  days?  Can  you  remember  how 
the  telephone  spoke  to  you,  straight  from  the 
fierce  heart  of  the  city,  and  how  you  used  to  say 
to  us,  with  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  such  a 
light  in  your  eyes,  "Go  after  it,  old  chap ;  go  after 
it  and  get  it?"  And  do  you  remember  days  of 
tension,  of  waiting  and  waiting ;  and  how  as  we 
all  sat  there  waiting,  the  Great  Event  would  at 
last  "break?"  Josslyn,  those  days  of  anxiety, 
strain,  effort,  accomplishment,  gladness,  when  you 
were  the  leader  of  us  all!  And,  Josslyn,  those 
afternoons  when  we  would  hang  about  your  desk 


DEADLINES [206] 

when  the  paper  was  out,  and  bring  smiles  to  your 
face  with  our  banter.  And  how  sweet  it  was, 
when  the  city  could  do  no  more  to  us  for  a  few 
hours,  to  put  on  our  coats  and  go  out — free! — 
into  the  streets,  lighting  our  pipes.  Those  tre- 
mendous years,  Josslyn,  when  you  were  the  Boss, 
and  life  was  vivid.  Remember,  Josslyn,  grey 
creature  writing  head-lines? 


[207] 


DEADLINES 


Josslyn 


PART  TWO 


[I] 


==ilT  WOULD  have  surprised  anyone 
■  unacquainted     with    newspaper 

I  offices  to  hear  how  little  stir  the 

I  break-down  of  the  city  editor  of 

I  the   great   Press   caused   in   our 

^  z=:  news-room.  There  is  a  special 
optimism — or  perhaps  a  special  callousness — for 
such  cases.  It  is  based  upon  the  knowledge  that, 
no  matter  who  falls,  the  army  always  advances, 
the  machine  never  stops.  And  then,  we  have  seen 
so  many  men  "blow  up,"  fall  ill,  or  go  crazy,  that 
when  something  happens  we  merely  look  sympa- 
thetic and  wait  until  the  patient  is  cured. 

Naturally  it  did  seem  a  little  strange,  the  next 
morning  after  Josslyn's  collapse,  to  hear  George 
Brown  coolly  say  into  Josslyn's  telephone : 

"He  isn't  here.  He's  sick.  Anything  I  can  do 
for  your 

And  it  did  impress  us  queerly  when  we  walked 
up  to  take  assignments  from  Brown  and  had  to 
say  "yes,  sir"  to  a  comrade  with  whom  we  had 
wrangled  the  day  before  on  equal    terms.      But 


DEADLINES [208] 

this  feeling  wore  off.  Presently  we  were  used  to 
Brown,  with  his  cool,  abrupt  manner ;  and  barring 
a  vague  sense  of  loss — ^the  lack  of  some  intangible, 
supporting  presence — we  breasted  our  tasks  the 
same  as  ever. 

There  was  plenty  of  talk,  certainly.  It  fed  upon 
the  fact  that  we  were  cautioned  not  to  go  to 
Josslyn's  home,  nor  even  to  call  him  on  the  tele- 
phone. A  rumor  started  that  he  was  dying;  but 
this  was  exploded  by  someone  who  had  seen  him 
walking  with  his  sister.  Then  the  melodramatic 
stories  gave  way  to  an  assurance  that  he  was  only 
taking  a  "good  long  rest."  And  by  and  by  the 
word  came  officially  from  the  Old  Man's  room  that 
Josslyn  was  going  to  Europe.  Promptly  after  this 
announcement,  Josslyn  reappeared  in  the  office. 
He  was  thin  and  somewhat  silent;  but  he  was 
whole.  I  recall  that  we  gave  him  a  "banquet," 
which  would  have  been  desperately  dull  had  not 
/  the  Drunkard  (then  on  his  first  term  of  service) 
•1  arrived  intoxicated  and  made  all  the  speeches. 
Josslyn  himself  had  little  to  say.  He  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table  fingering  his  fork,  and  with  a 
wistful  look  in  his  eyes.  The  affair  broke  up  at 
nine  o'clock.    We  forgot  to  tip  the  waiters. 

[11] 
TLTE  WENT  to  London  to  "investigate  industrial 
•*•  •■•  conditions."    From  there  he  crossed  to  Paris, 
without  having  cabled  a  word. 


[209] DEADLINES 

I  return  now  to  what  I  have  learned  through  my 
proxy,  the  Star.  Without  him  I  never  should  have 
got  so  close  to  Josslyn's  memories  of  Paris,  nor 
should  I  be  able  to  set  down  almost  word  for  word 
Josslyn's  terse,  but  eloquent  picture  of  the  Beau- 
tiful City: 

Paris  from  the  Butte  of  Montmartre:  A  laby- 
rinth of  slums,  watched  over  by  the  Basilica,  slums 
in  which  foulness  and  poetry  dwell  side  by  side, 
and  beyond  which  rises  Paris  quivering  in  the 
vapor  from  myriad  chimneys.  Brown  masses  of 
buildings,  blending  into  the  lavender  shadows  of 
the  surrounding  hills ;  mysterious  cloud-shapes  of 
roofs,  from  which  loom  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame 
and  St.  Sulpice,  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  the 
peaks,  tiny  in  perspective,  of  great  houses  once 
imperial. 

Paris  from  the  region  of  the  Trocadero ;  at  one's 
feet  the  river;  then  the  armored  limbs  of  the 
Eiffel  Tower,  spanning  a  broad  promenade;  then 
the  dwindling  harmony  of  buildings  and  the  wist- 
ful horizon.  Belated  sunbeams  drift  over  the 
Trocadero  hill,  tingeing  the  river  with  pink,  touch- 
ing with  slow  fire  the  windows  of  houses  lining 
the  river  in  its  curve  toward  the  northeast.  Far 
away,  a  flash,  perhaps  from  the  golden  lions  of  the 
Pont  Alexander  III. 

Paris  of  the  Champs  Elysees;  Paris  from  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe :  That  thrilling  downward  sweep 
of  pearly  "hotels,"  veteran  chestnut  trees,  and 


DEADLINES [2103 

avenue.  The  finger  of  the  obelisk,  poised  against 
the  distant  color-splashes  of  the  Tuileries.  Beauty 
after  the  manner  of  the  Bourbons  and  Bonapartes. 
Sublimity  created  by  a  sweep  of  the  scepter. 

Paris  of  the  Grand  Boulevard:  Buildings  lacy 
with  gilt-lettered  signs;  windows  flashing  with 
jewelry,  perfumes,  costumes,  pictures;  writhing 
masses  of  people  in  gaudy  uniforms  or  gaudier 
gowns;  arc-lights  quivering  red  and  yellow  by 
night  and  conveying  their  tints  to  the  languid  tree- 
branches;  tides  of  people  chattering,  murmuring, 
shuffling;  streams  of  motors,  clashing,  hooting; 
cafes  roaring,  sparkling.  A  mild,  indulgent  moon 
sailing  over  all. 

Paris  of  the  "left  bank" :  Crooked,  tatterdema- 
lion streets,  concealed  convent  gardens,  slim, 
monocled  studios,  crack-brained  huddles  of  roofs, 
mansards,  ruins;  churches  rotting  behind  hoard- 
ings ;  dim  by-ways,  green  lanterns  on  the  comers ; 
gurgles  of  laughter  and  music. 

Paris  of  the  Seine :  The  essence  of  what  is  love- 
liest and  most  mysterious  in  the  Beautiful  City. 
Below  there,  below  the  parapet,  "she"  glides. 
(The  Seine  is  always  "elle"  to  the  Parisian.) 
"She"  glides  by,  rapid  but  solemn,  infatuated  with 
herself.  She  wears  satin,  shading  from  blue  to 
black.  "She"  hurries  under  bridges,  drifts  rever- 
ently past  Notre  Dame,  boils  proudly  past  the 
Chambre  des  Deputes.    And  the  grey  houses  seem 


£2113 DEADLINES 

to  bend  over,  Narcissus-like,  to  gaze  into  the  pas- 
sionate stream. 

No  one  can  look  back  without  emotion  upon 
these  and  manifold  other  things  one  has  seen  in 
Paris.  The  Bautiful  City  lies  there  behind,  a 
receding  spectacle,  an  interlude  in  the  imperative 
rhythm  of  life,  to  most  people  a  memory  like  a 
passing  love  affair. 

Such  a  memory  remains  still  in  Josslyn's  mind, 
but  blurred  by  his  misery — ^for  he  was  miserable. 
He  remembers  journeys,  conversations,  meager 
errands  and  half-hearted  literary  work  of  that 
strange  period.  A  few  faces  peer  out  spectrally 
from  the  fog;  a  few  glimpse  of  the  beauty  and 
vivacity  of  the  amazing  capital  remains  with  him, 
strangely  woven  with  black  moods  when  he  was 
all  but  casting  himself  into  the  Seine.  And  there 
was  one  day  when  he  walked  in  the  Luxembourg, 
by  accident,  with  France  Herself;  a  girl  of  the 
quarter  who  pitied  him,  spoke  caressingly  to  him, 
and  nearly  tempted  him  to  fall  in  love  with  her, 
and  remain  in  Paris  for  life. 

The  Star  smiled  his  wisest  smile  at  this  point  in 
his  narrative. 

"You  should  have  seen,"  said  he,  "how  the  good 
old  fellow  blinked  when  he  let  slip  that  glimpse  of 
his  European  experience.  He  shut  himself  up 
quickly  and  switched  to  a  description  of  Parisian 
streets.  And  then  he  told  me  of  a  day  he  spent  on 
Montmartre  hill,  looking  down   over  the   magic 


DEADLINES [2123 

city,  and  imagining  a  leap  into  Hell.  A  different 
sort  of  Hell  from  being  city  editor.  This  would 
be  a  complete  abandonment  of  duty,  of  effort,  of 
morals.  It  would  be  easy,  he  fancied,  to  walk 
down  into  that  valley  of  beckoning  arms  and 
gaudy  carnival  and  simply  disappear.  In  a  few 
weeks  or  days,  he  would  be  buried  under  the  tide 
of  pleasure.  He  would  get  drunk,  and  stay  drunk. 
He  would  cast  anchor  at  Maxim's  or  the  Hole  in 
the  Wall,  would  hurl  the  last  of  his  expense  money 
upon  the  table,  and  would  swim  in  the  prismatic 
flood  of  booze  until  he  sank.  And  at  last, 
exhausted,  he  would  be  cast  upon  some  desolate 
urban  beach,  finished,  drowned." 

Over  and  over,  the  Star  tells  me,  this  tempta- 
tion came  to  Josslyn.  It  would  have  been  a 
cheerful  ending,  would  it  not,  to  the  history  of  a 
specially  constructed  optimist?  Yet  as  one  reviews 
our  friend's  mental  struggle,  such  a  crisis  as  he 
passed  through  seems  inevitable.  To  be  bred  in 
the  belief  that  the  world  is  altogether  a  safe  and 
beautiful  place,  to  be  shielded  from  the  sorry 
pageantry  of  cities,  and  then  to  have  suddenly 
spread  before  his  eyes  the  real  thing,  is  a  shock 
that  would  unsettle  any  intellect.  There  is  nothing 
new  about  it.  It  has  happened  to  any  number  of 
scholars,  and  to  innumerable  honest  theological 
students.  It  has  even  happened  to  newspaper 
men.  The  majority  of  these  last,  however,  are  able 
to  shield  their  feelings  in  professional  unconcern. 


[213  3 DEADLINES 

Their  flashes  of  sympathy,  though  genuine,  are 
brief.  They  go  home  laughing,  shutting  off 
instinctively  the  hideous  kinetoscope  of  the  day. 

Now  it  may  be  guessed  that  on  that  day  of  his 
fainting  fit  there  had  broken  down  in  Josslyn — at 
least  for  a  while — the  last  supports  of  his  faith 
that  "God's  in  His  heaven."  Physical  depression 
was  piled  upon  mental.  It  had  been  a  terrible  day, 
anyhow.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  it  was  "Black 
Friday,"  when  murderers  are  hanged.  Always  the 
worst  of  all  days  for  Josslyn;  always  days  of 
strain,  of  mental  torment,  of  pity,  and  of  anger. 
Everything  culminated  in  his  collapse,  which  had 
been  preparing  for  weeks  under  his  poise;  the 
collapse  of  his  beliefs,  his  self-confidence,  and  his 
sense  of  authority. 

There  would  have  been  no  use  making  sugges- 
tions to  the  Old  Man,  but  Europe  was  not  the 
place  for  Josslyn.  Beside  some  peaceful  lake,  near 
home,  he  might  have  recovered  the  illusions  of 
Happyville,  at  least  in  some  degree.  In  Europe 
he  absorbed  poisons  from  which  he  did  not  recover. 
In  that  new  and  intoxicating  atmosphere,  alone 
among  thousands  of  fatalistic  and  indifferent  peo- 
ple, he  listened  to  the  messages  that  lead  to 
madness ;  the  messages :  "Do  what  you  like ;  go  to 
Hell  if  you  like;  who  cares?" 

Imagine  him  lying  awake  in  his  hotel  room  in 
the  Latin  Quarter,  and  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing.    Should  he  ever  go  back?    If  so,  to  what? 


DEADLINES £2i4j 

He  is  a  failure.  At  home  he  has  collapsed;  col- 
lapsed shamefully.  Here  he  is  supposed  to  write 
things,  and  he  cannot  write  them.  He  is  adrift, 
lost.  He  is  quite  as  aimless  as  those  drunkards, 
or  drug  fiends,  howling  in  the  streets  ....  How 
they  howl!  There  is  a  woman  who  always  comes 
through  Josslyn's  street  about  midnight,  shriek- 
ing prayers,  or  curses  ....  One  cannot  under- 
stand her.  There  is  a  sound  of  crashing  boards 
down  at  the  wine-shop  on  the  corner.  There  is  a 
scurrying  of  feet ;  a  flurry  of  insane  laughter  .  .  . 

Paris  is  full  of  weird  sounds.  Its  bells  are 
mournful.  The  clatter  of  its  carts  and  tram- 
wheels  among  the  silent  stone  houses  is  strange. 
Locomotive  whistles  have  a  piercing,  puny,  fading 
note,  terribly  distressing.  Eerie  voices  hover 
among  the  mansards. 

Josslyn  is  all  alone,  thinking,  wondering. 

Perhaps  he  goes  upon  the  boulevards,  there  to 
mingle  with  slow-moving  promenaders,  all — ^he 
thinks — wearing  a  fatalistic  grimace,  an  expres- 
sion of  "Do  what  you  like ;  who  cares  ?"  In  cafes 
he  sees  throngs  of  people  leaning  over  little  tables, 
people  of  all  nationalities  and  types,  mingled  in 
feverish  carouse.  And  in  the  streets  there  is  a 
continuous,  maddening  tinkle,  toot  and  swish, 
which  compared  with  the  good-natured  roar  of 
Josslyn's  own  city  is  like  a  crack-brained  circus. 

"Gay"  Paris!  Josslyn  thought  it  sad.  The 
lavishness,  the  brilliant,  the  hoydenishness,  the 


[215] DEADLINES 

"who  cares?"  of  it  all,  smote  him  with  a  fancy 
that  he  was  sliding  with  it  to  a  soft,  sickening 
death. 

And  there  was  always  the  thought  seeping  into 
his  mind — maybe  a  transmission  of  thought  from 
the  boulevardiers — "You  have  lived  long  enough ; 
worked  long  enough.  Rest  and  play  here.  Go  on 
to  death  with  us.  There's  nothing  in  success. 
There's  no  effort  worth  while.  Work  is  a  fetich, 
and  results — pooh,  there  are  none !" 

Sometimes  he  got  out  his  portable  typewriter 
and  wrote  in  his  room ;  wrote  things  that  started 
sanely  enough,  and  trailed  off  always  into  mere 
words.  He  threw  away  these  writings.  He  never 
sent  a  line  from  Europe.  This  is  why  the  legend 
of  Josslyn's  "trip  abroad"  has  always  been,  in  the 
news-room,  an  illustration  of  failure.  His  adven- 
ture has  been  unfavorably  compared  with  the 
odysseys  of  Sinful  Goode,  and  the  sage  remark 
always  added :  "It  takes  a  certain  type  of  man  to 
do  foreign  service."  This  was  what  was  meant 
in  that  cigar-store  conversation,  away  back  there. 

I  am  glad  to  tell  the  truth  as  the  Star  learned 
it  from  Josslyn. 

[HI] 

IN  the  office,  I  recall,  there  had  begun  to  be  mur- 
murs and  rumors  again.  Murmurs  because — 
oh,  we  were  merely  human! — we  didn't  think  "a 
man  should  be  kept  on  the  pay  roll  indefinitely, 
loafing  in  Europe."    And  there  was  considerable 


DEADLINES [2i6j 

wonder  because  Josslyn  didn't  write  to  us.  Not 
so  much  as  a  post-card.  Campbell,  who  had  the 
Old  Man's  ear,  carefully  sounded  him  for  news. 
There  was  none.  Josslyn  hadn't  written  to  the 
Old  Man  himself.  But  Campbell  obtained  the  mail 
address  of  the  absentee,  and  we  all  wrote  to  him. 
We  gave  him  the  latest  news  of  the  news-room; 
how  Barlow  had  sprained  his  ankle,  and  Wade  was 
doing  make-up;  how  Old  Slater  had  finally  quit; 
how  O'Toole,  the  photographer,  had  blown  up  the 
chancel  of  a  church  with  his  flash-light.  Then  we 
waited  for  a  cheerful,  brotherly  answer  from 
Josslyn.    None  came. 

One  day,  quite  unexpectedly,  we  learned  that  he 
was  coming  home.  The  rumor  ran  in  no  time  from 
news-room  to  composing  room;  from  composing 
room  to  cigar  store.  "Josslyn's  coming  back." 
Brown  added  the  detail:  "And  darn  glad  I'll  be 
to  hand  over  his  job."  The  office  buzzed  with 
honest  pleasure.  We  liked  Brown — but  we  wanted 
Josslyn. 

Now  bulletins  began  coming  in  earnest.  He  had 
sailed.  He  had  reached  New  York.  He  was  start- 
ing wesward  by  twenty  hour  train.    He  was  well. 

We  collaborated  in  a  telegram :  "Welcome  home, 
Boss.    The  city  is  pickling  hell  for  you." 

It  was  astonishing  how  much  we  talked  about 
this  trifling  matter,  the  return  of  Josslyn  to  the 
news-room ;  and  also,  how  vividly  we  remembered 
things  about  him.    The  figure  that  had  for  a  while 


[217  1 DEADLINES 

been  lost,  that  had  become  blurred  by  absence  and 
preoccupation,  now  lived  again  before  us,  quiet, 
steady,  and  winsome.  And  we  realized  that  we 
had,  inwardly,  given  up  ever  seeing  him  again. 
We  had  accepted,  in  our  fatalistic  way,  an 
unspoken  suspicion  that  he  had  left  the  paper 
forever.    Now  there  was  no  doubt  of  his  return. 

But  no  one  should  believe  that  we  said  things 
such  as  I  have  written.  No,  the  things  said  among 
the  desks  were  like  this : 

(From  Brown)  "I  hope  he's  feeling  strong  and 
ugly.  I'm  going  to  tell  him  what  I  think  of  this 
lazy  gang." 

(From  Barlow)  "111  take  my  vacation  soon  as 
he  gets  here.    Got  it  all  fixed,  boys." 

(From  Wade)  "Fm  going  to  put  in  my  applica- 
tion for  a  trip  abroad.    If  he  can  go,  I  can." 

(From  the  staff  generally)  "Soon  as  he  gets 
back,  watch  me  strike  for  my  raise.  "They've 
stalled  me  long  enough." 

It  was  not  until  much  later  that  it  was  learned 
that  the  Old  Man  had  ordered  Josslyn  back; 
ordered  him  back  in  three  preemptory  words. 

It  is  only  now  that  I  am  able  to  reveal — as  those 
pompous  foreign  correspondents  say — that  the  Old 
Man's  cable  reached  Josslyn  just  as  he  was  writing 
a  letter  of  resignation  from  the  staff. 


DEADLINES [2i8j 

[IV] 

THE  STAR  has  passed  on  to  me  Josslyn's 
description  of  his  homeward  journey ;  of  how 
he  paced  the  deck,  gazed  out  over  limpid  seas,  and 
flung  away,  bit  by  bit,  the  saffron  fancies  of  his 
sick  time;  how  he  wept  when  he  entered  New 
York  harbor;  how  he  rushed  home,  with  his  face 
glued  to  the  car-window,  gulping  in  every  detail 
of  the  American  landscape.  He  could  not  sleep. 
The  night  hours  he  spent  in  the  smoking-compart- 
ment,  thinking,  thinking,  and  adjusting  himself 
anew  to  the  city,  the  office,  the  men;  trying  to 
remember  their  faces;  knowing  that  all  that  he 
cared  for  was  there,  in  the  news-room. 

The  city  drew  near.  The  shoulders  of  sand- 
dunes  rose  against  the  pale  sky ;  they  gave  way  to 
groups  of  wooden  roofs,  then  to  isolated,  enormous 
factory  buildings,  and  to  flocks  of  chimneys. 
Silent,  stolid,  trains  of  freight-cars,  oil-tanks,  coal- 
barges,  slid  past.  Tall  cranes  appeared,  gigantic, 
foolish.  Presently  chimneys  and  roofs  blended 
into  masses.  A  narrow  river  was  crossed,  reflect- 
ing in  its  murky  waters  the  masts  of  steamers. 
A  brief  rush  through  a  valley  of  narrow  streets, 
and  there  appeared  the  great,  ghostly  bodies  of 
the  steel  mills,  wrapped  in  ruby  clouds  of  smoke. 
More  streets ;  long,  straight  streets,  wheeling  by ; 
a  tall  spire,  like  a  monument;  glimpses  of  parks 
and  boulevards;  then  renewed  chaos,  upended 
bridges,  mournful  limbs  and  shoulders  of  fac- 


[219] DEADLINES 

tories,  and  enormous,  monotonous  assemblages  of 
freight  cars. 

And  at  last  he  was  among  buildings  fifteen 
stories  tall,  and  taller;  buildings  with  dazzling 
batteries  of  windows  reflecting  the  morning  sun. 
From  among  them  rose,  to  surprise  him,  the  slim, 
graceful  body  of  a  new  hotel,  with  white  stone 
facings,  and  the  peaks  of  many  another  new  land- 
mark. Above  rose  the  old  characteristic  clouds  of 
smoke;  and  he  could  hear  familiar  voices,  ear- 
splitting  sounds,  mysterious  mechanical  wails  and 
groans.  It  was  his  own  city  again,  his  own  bril- 
liant, challenging,  fascinating  but  fearsome  city. 
He  looked  upon  its  huge  stone  masses  and  its 
radiance  of  a  million  windows  with  a  height- 
ened pulse,  and  yet  with  a  sort  of  despair.  He 
had  forgotten  that  it  was  all  so  gigantic.  He  had 
forgotten  its  tremendous  impact. 

On  the  way  to  the  office  new  fears  shook  him ; 
new  certainty  that  he  was  a  failure.  No  question, 
it  was  all  gone,  all  that  buoyancy  with  which  he 
had  endured  the  city  desk,  and  defied  the  city 
itself. 

When  he  reached  the  office,  what  should  he  do? 

He  did  not  know. 

[V] 

WE  had  wired :  "The  city's  pickling  hell  for 
you."    And  in  fact,  it  had  done  just  about 
that. 

Events  had  started  with  a  little  strike  of  whole- 
sale grocery  clerks.    Overnight,  this  petty  griev- 


DEADLINES  [220] 


ance  had  swollen  into  a  walkout  of  truck 
teamsters;  and  before  anybody  could  catch  his 
breath  all  the  "Jehus"  had  laid  down  the  reins 
and  swarmed  into  the  streets  to  make  trouble. 
The  owners  had  sworn  defiance,  and  had  sent  out 
wagons,  manned  by  gloomy-looking  drivers  and  by 
two  policemen  apiece,  to  "break  the  strike."  The 
usual  result:  chaos.  On  the  day  we  telegraphed 
Josslyn  our  welcome,  wagons  were  being  crippled 
and  burned  in  various  places  about  town,  and  iso- 
lated reports  were  coming  in  of  strike-breakers 
being  stoned  and  chased  down  alleys.  On  the  next 
day  the  down-town  district  was  just  one  solid  riot. 
Caravans  of  guarded  wagons  were  being  driven 
through  the  main  streets ;  and  the  sidewalks  were 
pre-empted  by  mobs  that  followed  these  wagons 
with  imprecations,  and  worse.  Right  in  front  of 
the  city  hall  bricks  flew  like  chaff ;  a  stray  revolver 
shot  broke  a  window  in  the  mayor's  office ;  a  patrol 
wagon  was  tipped  over. 

In  front  of  our  office,  that  day  about  ten  o'clock, 
the  trouble  came  to  a  head.  The  mob  concentrated 
in  the  narrow  street  under  our  windows,  and  there 
was  a  tempest  of  shooting,  shouts,  and  unex- 
plained crashes.  Across  the  street  we  could  see 
the  windows  full  of  people,  some  merely  gazing 
curiously  down,  but  others,  I  regret  to  say,  throw- 
ing ink-stands,  chair-legs,  and  other  missiles  down 
upon  the  police.  One  group  of  young  devils  on  a 
fire-escape  poured  boiling  water  on  the  back  of  a 


[2213 DEADLINES 

team  of  horses,  which  proceeded  to  dash  into  the 
crowd  and  mow  down  a  few  innocent  by-standers. 
Half  of  the  staff  was  at  the  windows,  enjoying  the 
spectacle,  while  the  other  half  wrote  descriptions 
like  mad,  or  scrawled  head-lines  for  extras.  Peo- 
ple ran  about  yelling  above  the  awful  noise  that 
came  in  from  the  street.  And  at  his  big  desk 
Brown,  with  his  collar  off  and  his  shirt  open  at  the 
neck,  jumped  up  and  down  and  side-wise,  trying  to 
write  "leads,"  answer  telephones,  and  say  "Yes, 
sir;  yes,  sir"  to  the  Old  Man,  all  with  the  same 
motion. 

Into  this  bedlam  suddenly  came  Josslyn. 

We  had  almost  forgotten  him.  Nobody  had  had 
any  time  to  gossip,  to  busy  himself  with  absentees. 
So  Josslyn  came  in  as  though  it  were  out  of  the 
blue,  instead  of  out  of  that  murderous  street.  I 
recall  that  he  slipped  in  at  the  door  of  the  news- 
room, pretty  quietly,  set  down  his  suit-case,  and 
drew  his  handkerchief  across  his  forehead.  A  boy, 
vaulting  for  the  door  with  copy,  nearly  upset  his 
old  Boss  and  never  looked  to  see  who  it  was.  One 
of  the  desk-men  looked  up  and  smiled.  And 
Josslyn  just  stood  there,  seeming  a  bit  dazed  and 
out  of  place. 

Pretty  soon  Brown  had  a  breathing-space,  bit 
a  piece  from  an  unlit  cigar  and  whirled  around  to 
find  the  rightful  owner  of  his  desk  standing  there. 
George  jumped  up  with  a  "Well !"  He  held  out  his 
hand,  but  just  then  his  private  telephone  buzzed, 


DEADLINES ^222j 

and  he  leaped  to  answer  it.  Josslyn,  halted  mid- 
way of  a  greeting,  looked  more  taken  aback  than 
ever.  He  caught  sight  of  me,  and  his  eyes  took 
on  that  affectionate  light  that  was  so  natural  to 
them;  but  he  did  not  come  forward.  He  hung 
there  by  the  door,  with  the  strangest,  timid, 
baffled  manner.  I  noticed  now  that  he  was  more 
carefully  dressed  than  he  used  to  be,  and  that 
there  was  an  odd  deliberateness  about  his  move- 
ments. 

The  staff,  by  now,  was  beginning  to  wake  up  to 
his  presence.  Two  or  three  of  the  men  started  up 
to  shake  hands,  and  a  couple  of  new  chaps  stand- 
ing near  me  whispered  "That's  Josslyn,  used  to 
be  city  editor,  you  know."  There  might  have  been 
quite  a  reception  in  a  minute  or  two,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  entrance  of  the  Old  Man.  He  came  in 
at  long  strides,  and  with  a  furious  frown,  and 
with  his  hands  full  of  proofs.  Josslyn  heard  him 
coming,  and  stepped  to  one  side,  and  the  Old  Man 
brushed  by  him  heedlessly,  his  old  specks  flashing 
sparks. 

"Look  here.  Brown,  what  do  you  mean  by  this 
.  .  .  .  "  was  the  beginning  of  the  sentence  he  left 
trailing  in  his  path  as  he  went  by.  There  was  a 
buzz  and  clatter  around  the  city  desk  for  five  min- 
utes, during  which  we  by-standers  kept  our  noses 
on  our  copy-reading  or  clattered  our  typewriters 
dutifully.  When  I  looked  up  from  work  Josslyn 
had  disappeared. 


[223] DEADLINES 

That  was  all  until  afternoon,  when  I  was  told 
there  was  something  going  on  in  the  composing 
room.  I  went  out,  and  found  a  ring  of  printers 
and  editors  gathered  about  the  stone,  from  which 
the  last  forms  of  the  First  Final  had  just  been 
slid  to  the  stereotypers.  The  gang  stood  about 
with  grins  and  great  brawny  arms  folded ;  smeary 
faced  "galley  boys"  hung  nearby,  open-mouthed. 
Big  Jim,  the  foreman,  was  making  a  speech  to 
somebody.  Through  the  ring  I  could  just  see  the 
slim  form  and  quiet  face  of  Josslyn.  The  face 
was  not  only  quiet;  it  was  tired;  and  it  was 
dejected.  He  stood  there  with  a  sort  of  wistful 
smile,  a  bashful  shadow  of  a  smile,  his  mouth 
quivering  with — well,  I  wouldn't  swear  that  it  was 
a  smile  at  all.  And  Big  Jim  was  making  a  speech 
of  welcome,  working  in  all  the  old  bromides  and 
stale  jokes  appropriate  to  such  an  event.  Josslyn 
was  always  a  tremendously  popular  man  with  the 
printers. 

Going  back  into  the  hall,  I  met  Brown  just  com- 
ing out  of  the  Old  Man's  room.  He  seized  me  by 
the  shoulder,  mysteriously. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "Don't  tell  anybody  just 
yet;  but  Josslyn  isn't  coming  back  to  the  desk." 

He  looked  such  a  combination  of  ruefulness  and 
elation  that  I  almost  laughed. 

"You're  keeping  the  job,  then?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.''  We  looked  at  each  other,  both  thinking 
of  that  figure,  so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  our  Josslyn 
of  old,  who  was  being  toasted  at  the  stone. 


DEADLINES [224] 

"The  Old  Man  says,"  Brown  murmured  confi- 
dentially, "the  Old  Man  says  Josslyn  is  afraid  to 
take  the  desk  again.  Lost  his  nerve,  he  says.  I 
don't  mean  to  tell  anyone  but  you.  Looks  as 
though  I  was  knocking  my  predecessor,  don't  you 
see?  But,  Harry,  the  gist  of  it  is,  Josslyn  is 
through  ....  Well,  I  must  look  after  the  late 
Final." 

[VI] 

WAS  it  fair  to  say  he  had  "lost  his  nerve?" 
You  may  judge  from  the  interview  as  I 
have  it  through  the  Star. 

They  were  together  in  the  Old  Man's  room,  with 
the  door  shut.  The  Old  Man  had  done  Josslyn  the 
honor  to  get  out  of  his  chair  and  shake  hands 
with  him. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  and  they 
concealed  as  best  they  could  the  affection  born 
years  before,  and  always  invulnerable  to  quarrels. 

And  the  Old  Man  said : 

"I've  been  thinking — you  ought  to  have  another 
assistant.  The  paper's  been  growing.  Job's  too 
much  for  one  man  and  a  greenhorn  ...  By  the 
way,  I've  been  using  your  old  desk  sometimes. 
You  can  have  it  back." 

Josslyn  made  no  reply.  He  sat  staring  at  the 
floor. 

The  Old  Man  wiped  his  glasses  and  went  on, 
with  a  change  of  mood : 

"That  crowd  out  there  ....  need  somebody  to 


[2251 DEADLINES 

take  hold  of  'em.  Brown's  all  right,  but  too  calm ; 
too  calm.  I  can't  shout  at  'em  all  the  time.  Fm 
getting  old,  Josslyn." 

This  could  go  no  further.    Josslyn  said : 

"Mr.  Thain,  please  don't  make  plans — I  can't  go 
back  to  the  city  desk." 

The  Old  Man  almost  dropped  his  glasses.  How- 
ever, he  managed  to  put  them  on,  very  cautiously, 
and  he  favored  Josslyn  with  one  of  his  heavy 
looks. 

"I  presume,"  he  remarked  at  length,  "that  this 
is  one  of  your  temperamental  days.  I  remember 
you  used  to  have  'em.  Poetry,  poetry !  .  .  .  Well, 
that's  all  past  and  gone.    You  can't  fool  me,  kid." 

"No,  Mr.  Thain,  I  assure  you  that  I " 

"Assure  me  of  nothing.  You  are  city  editor. 
Tomorrow  you  take  hold   of  the   desk  and   the 

assignment  book.   I we  understand  each  other. 

Been  on  the  job  too  many  years.  I  want  you,  first 
of  all,  to  give  the  pay-roll  a  good  winnowing.  It'll 
stand  it." 

Josslyn  rose.  (I  am  giving  this  exactly  as  he 
told  it  to  the  Star.) 

"Mr.  Thain Fm  sorry.    You've  always  been 

more  than  good  to  me." 

His  voice  broke.    He  admits  it. 

"Don't  be  a  baby !"  The  Old  Man  was  furious. 
He  was  beginning  to  believe  Josslyn  now,  and  he 
was  frightened — and  grieved.  "Don't  blubber. 
Just  look  the  thing  over.     In  the  first  place  I 


DEADLINES [226] 

taught  you  the  business.  I  built  up  a  spine  in 
you,  inch  by  inch.  I — damn  you — I  half  killed 
you,  but  I  made  you.  Now  you  come  back  here, 
and  you  think  you  can  slip  out  from  under.  No, 
sir !  I  say  you  can't.  You  can't  treat  me  like  that. 
No  human  being  would  stand  it/' 

Josslyn  was  silent. 

"There,"  went  on  the  Old  Man  more  mildly, 
"you  begin  to  see  the  point,  don't  you?  Why,  kid, 
it  wouldn't  stand  to  reason  that  you  would  pass 
me  up,  any  more  than  I  would  pass  you  up.  We've 
been  through  too  much  together." 

He  waited. 

Josslyn  said:  "You  don't  suppose  I  want  to 
leave  the  paper?  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I 
don't  want  to  quit  ...  I  want  a  job  writing,  or 
something  ...    I  can't  go  back  to  the  desk." 

The  Old  Man  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His  face,  Josslyn, 
says,  was  a  study  in  injured  dignity,  perplexity, 
and  wrath.  But  his  eyes,  when  he  turned  them 
Josslyn's  way,  had  a  softer  glint,  somehow.  Was 
it  possible  he  was  thinking  of  his  own  disappoint- 
ments; of  his  own  ambitions  of  years  ago,  when 
very  likely  he  had  said  the  same  thing  to  some- 
body; that  he  wanted  to  be  a  writer,  and  not  an 
executive? 

But  his  voice  came  cold. 

"We  don't  need  any  writers.  We  need  hard- 
boiled  editors." 


[227] DEADLINES 

"Well,  then,  Mr.  Thain,  I  resign/' 

The  Old  Man  glared,  opened  his  mouth,  but  held 
hi3  peace. 

"How  about  the  copy-desk?*'  asked  Josslyn, 
after  three  minutes  of  ghastly  silence. 

"Talk  to  George  Brown,"  snapped  the  Old  Man. 
"He's  the  city  editor." 

It  was  the  beginning  of  his  new  relationship 
with  Josslyn,  his  relation  of  frigid  business,  shorn 
of  all  personal  touch. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  great  interview,  of  which 
we  knew  so  little  at  the  time,  and  about  which 
Josslyn  has  never  talked  until  the  Star  got  it  out 
of  him. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  Josslyn's  final  phase — 
for  he  will  never  have  another,  in  this  news-room. 

[VI] 

COMPREHENDING  him  now,  I  sometimes 
watch  this  comrade  at  his  work,  and  think: 
"After  all,  is  his  fate  so  deplorable?"  I  think 
also :  "After  all,  perhaps  the  outcome  was  best  for 
everyone." 

George  Brown  is  city  editor.  He  is  built  for  it. 
Brown  never  falters,  never  doubts.  He  gives 
orders  and  administers  discipline  with  a  fine  air 
He  assails  difficulties  with  quivering  nostrils; 
downs  them,  then  laughs.  There  are  few  complex- 
ities about  Brown.  It  is  ordained  that  he  shall 
have  men  under  him  like  Josslyn ;  that  Josslyn,  a 


DEADLINES  ^2^ 

finer,  keener  spirit,  shall  take  orders  from  a  man 
who  never  has  wavered,  as  he  himself  wavered. 
"Josslyn,  read  this  quick,  will  you?*'  "Hurry  that 
eight-column  line,  Josslyn."  "I  say,  Josslyn,  do 
the  make-up  today,  will  you?"  "Or,  "Here's  a 
problem,  Josslyn;  what  do  you  make  of  it?" 
Josslyn?  Why  he  can  do  anything;  knows  all 
about  the  business.  They  say  that  he  knows  the 
initials  of  every  prominent  citizen ;  that  his  mind 
is  stored  with  useful  details  of  past  events;  that 
he  can  locate  a  classical  quotation  unerringly ;  and 
that  he  can  tell  you  the  capitals  of  even  the  French 
colonies  in  Africa. 

He  isn't  anybody;  only  Josslyn. 

Well,  then,  shall  we  conclude  that  he  is  soured, 
despondent,  or  bitter?  Surely,  we  know  him  too 
well  to  think  that  he  is.  The  despair  that  seized 
him  ten  years  ago,  the  violent  negation  of  his 
youthful  trust,  the  urge  to  taste  death  and  Hell, 
are  gone.  Ten  years  of  quiet  work  at  his  profes- 
sion have  wrought  a  cure.  He  takes  life  now 
without  frenzies,  without  eagerness  or  illusions. 
He  is  not  to  be  fooled  by  ignes  f atui ;  nor  is  he  to 
be  terrorized  by  scare-crows. 

For  him,  it  has  settled  down  to  this:  He  will 
face  what  comes,  and  do  what  offers ;  and  always, 
always,  he  will  bear  himself  in  this  news-room  so 
as  to  encourage  gladness  and  assuage  unhappi- 
ness.  Titles,  distinctions,  jurisdiction  —  empty 
words,  all. 


f229i DEADLINES 

He  will  be  the  best  man  he  can  in  his  little  cir- 
cle of  the  world ;  the  masters  of  larger  circles  are 
welcome  to  them. 

This,  if  you  please,  is  his  Career. 


[231] 


DEADLINES 


[xni] 

The  Late  Watch 


[1] 


IX  O'CLOCK,  and  all's  well.   The 
watch  changes. 

It  has  become  dark  by  a  slow 
dropping  of  shade  into  the  valley 
where  our  building  squats  among 

sky-scrapers.    Lights  burn  in  the 

news-room;  one  illumines  the  city  desk,  others, 
widely  scattered  among  patches  of  darkness,  beam 
casually  upon  other  desks.  The  day  is  really  done. 
But  the  day  is  stretching  itself  into  a  night. 

Six  o'clock.  The  Old  Man,  like  a  true  sentinel, 
thrusts  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  perceives  that 
all  is  well.  He  wears  a  new  and  handsome  derby 
and  is  pink  with  barbering.  He  is  going  out,  one 
suspects.  His  glasses  twinkle. 
"Good-night,  Josslyn." 
"Good-night." 

The  Old  Man  takes  a  step  into  the  room. 
"You'd  better  go  to  dinner  soon.    Dunstane  can 
watch  the  'phone  while  you're  out  ....  A  child 
could  let  go  the  dummy  anyhow  ...  I  doubt  if 
he'll  die  before  morning." 


DEADLINES [2321 

Josslyn  appears  to  understand  these  cryptic 
sentences.  He  stands  by  the  city  desk,  newspaper 
in  hand,  his  shirt-sleeves  gleaming  snow-white  in 
the  oblique  radiance.  His  bearing  is  respectful, 
but  slightly  indifferent. 

"I'll  see  to  everything,"  he  says. 

"Well,  good-night." 

"Good-night." 

Barlow,  passing  through  the  room  from  his 
locker,  makes  the  floor  creak  with  his  heavy  and 
hurried  stride.  He  looks  strange  with  his  coat  on. 
His  hat  clings  to  his  large  head  in  a  sort  of  trepi- 
dation. He  is  in  great  haste  to  catch  his  elevated 
train,  which  passes  the  building  at  6:03  exactly; 
so  that  he  flings  to  Josslyn  a  hurried  farewell,  and 
he  attacks  the  swinging-door  impatiently,  as 
though  it  might  frustrate  him  in  getting  away. 
Following  more  tranquilly  at  his  heels  is  a 
reporter,  Wallace,  who  fondles  a  cigarette  and 
pauses  a  few  paces  from  Josslyn. 

"Commiserations,  old  chap.     Any  news?" 

"No,  replies  Josslyn.  "He  might  live  the  night 
out ;  can't  tell." 

"How  late  you  stuck?" 

"Eleven  o'clock — if  nothing  happens." 

Wallace  shrugs,  lights  his  cigarette,  departs. 

Josslyn  is  left  alone,  except  for  Dunstane,  the 
Cub,  who  is  sprawling  at  his  desk,  yawning,  and 
reading  a  moving  picture  magazine. 


[233] DEADLINES 

It  is  the  Late  Watch.  Josslyn  is  in  charge  of 
it,  and  the  Cub  is  his  staff.  An  august  person,  no 
other  than  the  governor  of  this,  our  state,  lies 
dying  in  the  capital  two  hundred  miles  away. 
Death,  when  it  releases  him,  will  release  Josslyn 
also. 

[11] 

THE  Late  Watch.  There  hover  about  this  insti- 
tution suggestions  of  gloom,  of  boredom,  of 
mystery,  of  anticipation,  of  reflection.  The  Late 
Watch  is  uncanny.  It  hints  of  the  unusual,  pos- 
sibly the  dreadful.  One  knows  that  there  has  been 
a  full  day's  work;  a  complete  procession  of  the 
ordinary  episodes  and  crises  of  a  day.  There  has 
been  a  summing  up  and  a  final  punctuation  of  all 
that  twelve  hours  could  do.  And  yet  there  per- 
sists an  unfinished  event,  a  shadow  of  probability, 
so  potent  that  here  are  Josslyn  and  his  "staff," 
still  on  duty.  The  allegro  of  the  day's  action  is  to 
have  a  coda — ^that  is,  if  "he"  dies.  The  city  is  now 
hurrying  home,  weary,  full-stuffed  with  impres- 
sions and  experiences.  The  street-cars  and  the 
elevated  trains  are  carrying  home  the  crowds, 
who  throw  off  rapidly  their  interest  in  affairs. 
The  city  is  bound  for  sleep.  But  the  city  will 
awaken  again,  will  spring  up  alert,  wondering, 
regretful,  voluble,  if  "he"  dies.  At  least,  this  is 
the  theory  of  the  Late  Watch. 

In  the  capital  the  august  person  lies  on  a  carved 
bedstead  in  the  middle  of  a  huge,  high-ceilinged 


DEADLINES t^sy 

chamber  on  the  second  floor  of  the  "executive 
mansion."  He  lies  as  though  dead,  barely  breath- 
ing. Each  breath  is  an  affair  of  state.  It  is  noted 
by  physicians  and  secretaries.  The  words  "he 
still  breathes"  are  passed  out  from  the  group  of 
physicians,  narrow-eyed  by  the  bed,  to  the  secre- 
taries who  murmur  and  wait  in  the  ante-chamber. 
Reporters  prowl  around,  murmuring  with  the 
secretaries;  and  there  are  messengers  who  sit 
against  the  wall,  snoring  into  their  caps;  and  in 
a  farther  room,  there  are  telegraph  operators  who 
lounge  in  front  of  instruments,  and  listen  to 
strange,  irrelevant  messages  as  they  pass.  Thus 
evening  closes  down  over  the  capital,  and  over 
the  executive  mansion,  and  in  that  domain  also 
there  is  a  Late  Watch. 

The  wires,  hissing  with  divers  things,  and  mak- 
ing long,  mysterious  streaks  over  meadows  and 
along  railroad  tracks,  connect  the  capital  with 
Josslyn's  newspaper  office,  as  with  some  hundreds 
of  others.  Here  in  Josslyn's  office  there  is  a  room 
where  a  telegraph  operator  waits,  half  listening 
to  chatter  from  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  ready 
to  spring  when  there  emerges  the  call  that  is  for 
his  ear  alone.  From  his  chair  the  operator  can 
see  through  the  open  door  Josslyn's  gray  head  and 
the  contour  of  Josslyn's  oval  cheek,  under  the 
desk-light.  It  will  be  ten  strides  only  to  Josslyn's 
side.    It  will  be  a  "quick  flash." 


[2353 DEADLINES 

Thus  the  two  Late  Watches  are  joined.  There 
is  a  chain  of  efficiency  and  professional  pride  all 
the  way  from  the  sleepless  physicians  and  the 
nimble  secretaries  to  our  office  and  to  Josslyn. 

"Will  *he'  die?  Will  *he'  live  out  the  night?" 
these  questions  are  written  huge  both  in  the  cap- 
ital and  here.  But  the  answer  is  written  else- 
where. 

[Ill] 

TN  the  face  of  this  mystery,  which  is  only 
•■•  artificially  greater  than  the  fate  of  some 
dipsomaniac  now  dying  in  the  county  hospital,  a 
very  notable  calmness  prevails  in  the  news-room. 

Josslyn  sits  reading.  He  has  put  on  a  pair  of 
horn-rimmed  spectacles,  which  he  wears  for  night 
work  only.  He  is  held  by  his  book;  not  a  muscle 
of  his  serious,  youthfully-cast,  but  greying  face 
moves.  Deliberately  he  turns  pages ;  thoughtfully 
he  absorbs  the  printed  lines,  missing  none.  After 
all,  it  must  be  that  what  he  is  reading  surpasses 
in  importance  the  question  whether  the  governor 
will  die.  A  circle  of  electric  light  and  a  solemn 
book  form  Josslyn's  radius. 

Dunstane,  the  Cub,  is  restless.  He  flicks  the 
pages  of  his  magazine,  and  throws  it  away.  He 
discovers  a  deck  of  cards,  and  spreads  them  out 
for  solitaire.  Abandoning  this,  he  yawns  twice, 
with  an  impatient  "yawp!"  at  the  end,  and 
gets  up. 

"Say  Josslyn " 


DEADLINES [2363 

"H— m?" 

"How  long  do  you  think  we'll  be  stuck?" 

Before  replying,  Josslyn  has  to  unfasten  his 
mind  from  the  page. 

"H — m?  Oh,  we're  due  to  stay  until  eleven — 
if  nothing  happens." 

"Well,  do  you  think  the  old  beggar*ll  last  till 
then?" 

"How  can  I  tell,  kid?" 

"Well,  I  thought  there  might  be  some  late  bul- 
letin or  something — my  gosh,  I  didn't  sign  up  for 
this  sort  of  stuff.  If  this  is  newspaper  work, 
gimme  back  my  army  job." 

Josslyn  is  again  deep  in  his  book.  The  Cub 
thrusts  his  hands  into  his  poskets,  and  makes  a 
turn  about  the  news-room,  part  of  the  way  in 
dance-step.  Returning,  apparently  much  bright- 
ened, he  says :  "Say,  Josslyn,  did  I  tell  you  about 
that  girl  that  I — oh,  you're  reading." 

Josslyn  turns  a  page.  The  Cub  walks  away  to 
a  window,  over-looking  the  street.  Down  there 
the  stragglers  in  the  army  of  home-going  workers 
are  footing  it  to  the  street-cars,  or  waiting  to 
cross  between  the  close  procession  of  teams  and 
motor-cars.  A  cross-hatch  of  electric  lights  plays 
among  the  crowds.  The  shadows  are  black  and 
eccentric.  Above  the  roof-tops  a  huge  sign  flares 
out:  "The  Wonder  Theater." 

It  is  all  very  gay,  the  Cub  thinks.  The  burble  of 
the  street  comes  to  him  softened,   but  winning. 


[237  3 DEADLINES 

He  can  hear  the  laughter  of  girls,  the  rough  glad 
warnings  of  teamsters  from  their  howdahs,  the 
shriek  of  whistles  at  the  crossing,  the  whole 
entrancing,  fluid  voice  of  the  city.  It  is  going 
somewhere.    It  is  free. 

But  he,  the  Cub,  is  a  prisoner. 

He  scowls  at  the  clock  on  the  wall ;  the  beastly, 
crawling  clock.  He  compares  the  clock  fantas- 
tically with  "Old  Josslyn,"  the  stationary  and 
reconciled  Josslyn,  who  can  read,  read,  read  while 
a  golden  evening  spreads  its  pageantry  in  the 
streets.  He  is  vexed  with  the  idea  that  Josslyn 
can  so  calmly  await  the  Event,  and  the  release. 
Will  he  ever  be  like  Josslyn?  Good  God,  no! 
There's  got  to  be  something  happening  when  he's 
around,  you  bet !  If  it  doesn't  happen  he'll  make 
it.  This  room,  with  its  atmosphere  of  dead  effort, 
is  intolerable  ....  Nothing  to  do ;  nothing  to  do. 
Supposing  even  that  the  "flash"  comes,  he  will 
accomplish  nothing,  unless  to  carry  a  message 
somewhere.  Josslyn  will  do  it  all  .  .  .  And  what 
if  they  wait  until  eleven  o'clock,  and  no  "flash" 
comes?  Worse  and  worse.  Then  they  will  have 
waited  for  nothing  at  all  ...  . 

During  these  reflections  the  Cub  stretches  his 
powerful  young  arms,  and  rises  on  his  toes,  in 
gymnastics.  Suddenly  he  comes  down  on  his 
heels.  The  telegraph  key  is  raining  taps.  The  Cub 
becomes  rigid.  He  thrusts  his  head  toward  the 
calm,  moon-faced  operator  as  the  latter  emerges 


DEADLINES £238] 

from  his  room.  The  Cub  takes  a  step,  and  snatches 
the  message  from  the  telegraph  man,  and  reads : 
"Bulletin :    6 :30  p.  m. 

Temperature,  101 ;  pulse,  120 ;  respiration,  32. 

Morphy. 
Jennings." 
The  Cub,  scowling,  conveys  the  yellow  slip  to 
Josslyn's  desk  and  lays  it  in  front  of  him. 
**There  you  are ;  still  alive." 
Josslyn  glances  at  the  message ;  nods. 
"All  right.    Thanks." 
The  room  is  again  silent,  save  for  the  clock-tick. 

[IV] 

npHERE  now  sounds  in  the  hall  a  clatter  of 
-*•  clumsy  feet,  and  a  swashing  sound.  In  a  few 
minutes  a  group  of  scrub- women,  bearing  pails, 
push  into  the  news-room,  and  go  to  work,  quite 
oblivious  of  Josslyn  and  the  Cub.  They  are  stout, 
shapeless  creatures,  with  lank  hair  piled  on  their 
heads;  and  they  murmur  among  themselves,  in 
some  foreign  tongue,  gossip  of  their  own  world. 

The  Cub,  with  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
eyes  the  women  with  disgust.  They  slosh  water 
toward  where  Josslyn  sits;  they  move  furniture 
about  firmly  and  efficiently.  At  length  they 
advance  upon  Josslyn,  and  he  is  forced  to  get  up, 
with  his  finger  in  his  book.  Thus  interrupted,  he 
percieves  the  Cub  and  his  fevers.    His  eyes  soften. 

It's  pretty  hard  to  do  nothing,  isn't  it?"  says 


[239] DEADLINES 

he  to  his  "staff."  "Go  out  and  smoke  if  you  want 
to.  r  can  manage  alone.  Well,  then,"  as  the  Cub 
shakes  his  head,  "stick  around,  and  think  of  your 
sins  ....  There's  a  lot  of  this  sort  of  hum-drum 
in  the  newspaper  business."  They  perch  side  by 
side  upon  an  unmolested  desk.  "Wait  until  youVe 
hung  two  days  and  nights  for  a  verdict.  Wait 
till  you've  done  a  stunt  at  a  national  convention. 
....  The  Late  Watch  was  invented  to  prove  the 
whimsicality  of  events;  in  other  words,  the  fact 
that  no  law,  nor  any  human  control,  rules  News. 
You  take  it  as  it  comes.    You  wait." 

(The  Cub  will  say  tomorrow :  "You  ought  to've 
heard  the  string  of  philosophical  bunk  Josslyn 
handed  me.") 

"I've  been  reading  history,"  goes  on  the  elder 
man.  "History  tells  you  how  there  are  long  grey 
days  and  nights  while  an  event  piles  up,  and  then 
comes  the  event,  like  a  lightning  stroke ;  and  there 
is  a  roll  of  thunder ;  then  the  monotonous  rumble 
of  ordinary  affairs  goes  on  again.  The  big  men  of 
history  were  always  there  to  deal  the  lightning- 
stroke — or  to  get  struck.  That's  newspaper  work ; 
you're  there,  or  else  you  aren't." 

Josslyn  smiles,  and,  folding  his  arms,  gazes 
about  the  news-room — scene  of  all  his  achieve- 
ments. 

"I  suppose  so,"  returns  the  Cub  aimlessly. 

There  is  a  diversion.  The  Drunkard  enters, 
involving    himself    quaintly    with    the    outgoing 


DEADLINES ijmj 

scrubwomen  and  their  pails.  Making  a  successful 
detour,  he  approaches  Josslyn  and  the  Cub.  His 
expression  is  demure,  but  a  satanic  twinkle  as  of 
triumph — or  maybe  of  strategy — dwells  in  his 
black  eyes.    He  is  not  very  drunk. 

"Is  th' — th'  old  beezer — dead  yet?"  he  inquires, 
clutching  the  edge  of  a  desk. 

"No,"  returns  Josslyn  shortly. 

"Can  I — can  I — do  anything  for  you?" 

"No,"  Josslyn  does  not  turn  his  head. 

The  Drunkard  looks  reproachfully  at  Josslyn, 
perceives  he  is  implacable,  and  sits  down  outside 
the  circle  of  electric  light.  And  he  grins  weakly 
at  the  Cub,  as  though  he  would  address  him.  But 
he  recalls  in  time  that  he  owes  him  money. 

Another  diversion.  A  printer,  wearing  a  leather 
apron  and  huge  shoes  slashed  to  ease  his  feet, 
shambles  in  from  the  corridor.  He  is  well  on  in 
middle  age,  deliberate  of  movement,  and  wears 
the  aspect  of  a  professional  buffoon.  He  waves  a 
blackened  hand  at  the  Drunkard,  glances  about 
the  desks  for  newspapers  which  he  may  purloin, 
and  at  last  addresses  Josslyn : 

"So  he  ain't  dead  yet?" 

"Not  yet,  Billy." 

"Well  ....  I  was  wondering  if  I  could  go  to 
dinner." 

There  is  a  brief  dialogue  about  ways  and  means 
which  postpones  the  printer's  design  of  going  to 
dinner.       In    the    meantime    another    man    has 


[2411 DEADLINES 

entered  the  room.  He  is  a  deep-chested  bullock 
with  a  countenance  both  determined  and  good- 
humored.  He  walks  in  with  a  solid  tread  very 
much  like  the  Old  Man's ;  and  in  fact  he  belongs 
to  the  Old  Man's  generation  of  never-say-die. 

"Well,  ain't  the  governor  goin'  to  kick  in 
tonight,  after  all?"  is  his  paraphrase  of  the 
stock  query. 

Josslyn  merely  smiles. 

The  stout  man  seats  himself  as  though  it  were 
his  first  pause  that  day.  And  perhaps  it  is,  for 
he  works  in  the  depths  of  the  building,  watching 
the  streams  of  papers  as  they  come  from  the 
presses  and  directing  the  flow  into  wagons  and 
trucks.  He  is  "the  mailing-room  boss,"  who,  it 
is  said,  never  sits  down. 

"What  say  we  start  a  little  game?"  he  grins. 

The  Cub  and  the  Drunkard  look  alive,  but 
Josslyn  shakes  his  head,  with,  "You  know  the 
Old  Man  barred  it  the  last  time." 

The  mailing-room  boss  shrugs  his  fleshy  shoul- 
ders, but  drops  the  subject. 

"Well,  it's  many  a  late  watch  you  and  Fve  had 
together,"  he  remarks  to  Josslyn.  "Do  you 
remember  the  time  we  hung  out  for  the  Pope's 
death  ten  years  ago?  And  things  got  balled  up, 
too.  You  flashed  me  over  the  'phone  Tope  dead,* 
sure  as  you're  bom;  and  we  started  th'  paper 
out  with  a  whoop.  Two  seconds,  and  there  were 
you  on  the  'phone  again.  'Kill  'em,'  says  you.  I 
remember  how  your  voice  sounded." 


DEADLINES ^2^ 

"Ai^d  I  remember  how  you  swore/'  counters 
Josslyn. 

"We  got  back  all  but  about  three  hundred 
papers,  though,"  says  the  mailing-room  man, 
smacking  his  lips  at  the  memory  of  that  battle. 
"The  Old  Man  never  heard  about  it  till  weeks 
afterward." 

The  Cub's  eyes  grow  bright  and  wondering  at 
these  memoirs.  The  Drunkard  now  snores. 

"Speakin*  of  long  chances  and  all  that,"  pipes 
up  the  printer,  "I  was  a  boy  in  the  old  Times 
office  when  Grant  died.  I  remember  the  night 
darn  well,  bet  you.  We  was  on  all  night,  an'  the 
gang  played  seven-up.  Well,  sir,  I'll  never  forget 
it.  It  got  toward  morning,  and  I  remember  old 
Poison  Green,  foreman  in  them  days,  was  a  dol- 
lar an'  a  quarter  to  the  bad.  Hadn't  been  for  that 
I  reckon  we'd  'a  broke  up  the  watch.  But  we  had 
a  wire  strung  to — ^to— where  was  it  Grant  died  ?" 

"Mount  McGregor,"  someone  prompts. 

"Yes,  an'  we  had  a  full  first  page  made  up  an' 
stereotyped.  Well,  it  got  on  toward  mornin',  and 
there  was  Green  an'  Foxy  Dunlap,  the  editor,  and 
a  telegraph  operator  there.  The  wire  was  sput- 
terin'  away  in  the  other  room.  Suddenly,  just  as 
Green  starts  to  rake  in  a  pot  that  would  'a  put 
him  even,  the  operator  pricks  up  his  head,  like  a 
horse,  and  he  jumps  up  and  hollers:  'Grant's 
dead!'  'n  Poison  Green  gives  a  whoop  and  heads 
for  th'   composin'   room,   and   Dunlap   goes   an' 


[243] DEADLINES 

whistles  down  th*  tube  to  th'  mailin'  room,  and 
only  after  they'd  let  the  paper  go  did  they  think 
to  ask  what  the  operator  knew  about  it  all,  and 
then  they  find  he'd  only  heard  a  flash  goin'  over 
the  wire,  an'  it  might  be  true,  an'  it  mightn't. 
But  it  turned  out  all  right " 

"Come,  Billy,"  says  Josslyn.  "You  don't  mean 
to  say  they  let  the  extra  go  on  a  message  for  some 
other  paper?" 

"It  might  'a  been  for  some  other  paperi  It 
might  'a  been  for  th'  governor  o'  Timbuctoo.  Any- 
ways, they  let  'er  go,  and  they  scooped  the  town. 
But  old  Poison  Green  never  did  collect  all  of  that 
pot." 

There  is  mild  laughter  over  this ;  then  yawns, 
and  a  stretching  of  arms.  Josslyn  alone  is 
thoughtful,  wide-awake.  He  says  to  the  mailing- 
room  boss,  "You  got  that  dummy  plate  all  safe 
downstairs  ?" 

"Nobody  can  release  it  but  me,"  returns  the 
boss,  surveying  his  big  fist.  "If  they  did,  they'd 
get  killed — or  worse." 

(Even  the  Cub  understands  that  a  dummy  plate 
is  a  prepared  page,  stereotyped,  ready  for  the 
press.) 

More  yawns. 

"He'll  hang  on  till  morning,"  predicts  the  mail- 
ing-room man,  wagging  his  head.  "Them  politi- 
cians are  tough." 


DEADLINES [24y 

He  and  the  printer  stroll  out  of  the  room, 
muttering.  The  Cub  obtains  permission  to  eat 
dinner.  The  Drunkard  follows  him  into  the  hall, 
waveringly.  Josslyn  is  left  alone. 

m 

ALONE,  he  is  suddenly  the  prey  of  nervous 
forebodings.  That  was  only  his  shell  that 
the  Cub  saw  him  in.  Within  the  shell  he  is  a 
ganglion  of  emotions,  foresights  and  fears. 
Though  he  **hung  out"  for  a  thousand  verdicts 
and  kept  late  watches  on  a  thousand  death-beds, 
he  would  ever  be  the  same.  The  mere  presence  of 
the  incalculable  works  upon  his  brain;  the  con- 
sciousness of  an  approaching  "flashV  sets  up  a 
painful  tingle  of  dread. 

He  paces  the  room  slowly,  angry  with  himself. 
Surely,  he  has  faced  this  sort  of  responsibility 
often  enough.  By  now  he  should  be  able  to  apply 
the  fatalism  of  the  profession ;  he  should  be  hard- 
ened, and  should  say  "I  don't  care  a  damn." 
Indeed,  he  pretends  that  he  doesn't  care.  He  says 
to  himself:  "What  if  something  did  go  wrong? 
Suppose  I  did  let  go  the  extra  before  the  governor 
died?  I  shouldn't  die  of  it  myself,  should  I?" 
But  this  thought  only  makes  him  aware  that  he 
would  care,  terribly.  He  would — ^he  would  resign 
next  morning,  of  course;  he  would  leave  town, 
that  he  would.  He  would  bury  himself  and  his 
humiliation  in  oblivion. 


[2453 : DEADLINES 

Well,  what  can  go  wrong?  How  can  anything 
possibly  go  wrong?  "Let's  see,"  he  reasons,  pacing 
the  floor:  "The  operator  will  get  the  flash;  he'll 
write  it  out,  must  have  him  write  it  out ;  then  a 
telephone  call  to  the  mailing-room,  and" — ^that 
ends  Josslyn's  responsibility.    Simple.    Inevitable. 

But — ^the  correspondent  at  the  capital  might 
blunder.  Josslyn  might  get  his  tongue  twisted  at 
the  telephone.  Something  ....  the  queerest 
things  have  been  known  to  occur  in  these  Late 
Watches.  Everybody  keyed  to  a  high  pitch. 
Everybody  inclined  to  gamble  .... 

He  pulls  himself  together.  But  he  cannot 
return  to  his  book ;  nor  can  he  maintain  any  defi- 
nite flow  of  thought.  The  mystery  is  greater  than 
that  merely  of  "When  will  he  die?"  The  sense  of 
helplessness  before  this  or  any  other  unfinished 
event  is  overpowering.  The  whole  thing  is  part  of 
the  great  veil  which  Life  draws  over  profound 
matters,  and  with  which  it  mocks  men  and  at  the 
same  time  perpetuates  them.  Josslyn  is  helpless 
before  it.  His  grasp  on  simple,  ordinary  ideas  is 
disorganized.  As  he  stands  at  the  window,  spec- 
tator of  the  night  where  dwell  thousands  of 
creatures,  as  helpless  as  he,  his  fingers  are  a  little 
clenched,  his  face  frowns,  "When— when  will  it 
come?" 

But  this  is  newspaper  work.  Would  he  exchange 
it  for  the  dull  certainty  of  a  book-keeper's  desk? 
No,  though  it  may  wreck  him  some  day,  though 


DEADLINES [246i 

it'  almost  certainly  leads  to  failure  and  can 
scarcely  lead,  even  for  a  day,  to  glory,  this  is  bet- 
ter than  the  work  which  one  can  control  by  certain 
processes,  and  fold  away  in  a  pigeon-hole.  No! 
Face  out  the  eccentric  future,  breast  the  chances 
of  success  or  disgrace:  This  is  worth  many  a 
"tamer"  job. 

Thus  in  the  complex  soul  of  Josslyn  there  rises 
the  courage  of  a  gamester  with  life,  challenging 
and  making  way  against  the  weakness  of  sick 
imagination. 

Suddenly  he  whirls.  The  operator  has  spoken. 

Or  did  he  speak?  The  long  half -dark  news- 
room is  full  of  phantoms,  of  eerie  voices. 

"It's  all  right,"  calls  the  operator  from  his 
room.  "I  thought  I  got  the  flash.  It  was  a 
mistake." 

Josslyn  turns  again  to  the  window.  The  sky, 
sallow  with  electric  flares,  is  ghostly.  The  roof- 
tops, outlined  against  it,  are  broken  into  turmoil, 
like  waves.    A  turmoil  of  things  guessed. 

[VI] 

THERE  is  a  step  in  the  room  and  Josslyn,  turn- 
ing,  beholds  the  Star,  who  walks  rapidly  to 
the  mail-box,  finds  a  letter,  and  leaves  the  room 
as  quickly  as  he  entered  it.  Josslyn  would  have 
liked  him  to  stay,  for  the  Star  is  cheerful  com- 
pany, and  he  knows  nothing  of  responsibility  and 
its  tremors.    But  the  Star  is  only  passing  through. 


izvn DEADLINES 

arjd  the  scent  of  his  cigarette,  smoked  in  despite 
of  rules,  is  all  that  remains  of  him. 

Josslyn  falls  to  thinking  of  his  comrades;  not 
only  of  the  Star,  but  of  the  incorrigible  Drunkard, 
and  the  comic  Cub;  of  the  globe-trotting  Goode, 
now  somewhere  on  a  rolling  sea ;  of  Barlow,  sweet- 
tempered  and  gruff -spoken ;  of  Brown,  the  young 
city  editor,  and  Emmett,  the  pervasive  news  edi- 
tor ;  of  Campbell,  the  philosopher,  and  of  the  grey 
Poet;  of  the  Old  Man,  who  has  never  quite 
forgiven  Josslyn,  yet  cherishes  him ;  and  of  all  the 
others,  notable  or  not,  the  quick-silver  company  of 
the  news-room,  bound  together  in  a  great  pride  of 
work,  but  expressing  it  in  growls  and  barks  of 
apparent  displeasure. 

Others  besides  the  men  of  the  news-room  come 
to  Josslyn's  mind.  He  thinks  of  the  intent  com- 
positors at  their  linotypes,  the  grave,  leisurely 
printers  in  the  "ad-room."  He  remembers  with 
sympathy  and  fondness  certain  stereotypers, 
elderly  men  perhaps,  clad  in  smeared  overalls, 
grey-faced  with  early  rising.  His  fancy  descends 
to  the  depths,  among  the  proud,  vociferous 
presses,  and  embraces  the  big-handed  fellows  who 
jovially  control  the  cylinders.  And  he  thinks  with 
a  blend  of  pity  and  humor  of  the  aged  "infor- 
mation man"  in  the  hall,  snow-bearded,  puncti- 
lious, and  humble.  He  remembers  many  a  sharp- 
eyed,  swaggering  driver  of  wagons  or  trucks,  men 
who  drive  in  all  weathers,  and  always  arrive. 


DEADLINES [2«i 


And  he  thinks  even  of  spinsterly  book-keepers  in 
the  business  office,  doing  a  man's  work.  And  he 
regards  with  particular  affection  the  taciturn  old 
fellow  who  runs  the  elevator,  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  ....  There  is  no  end  to  their  number, 
bowed  or  bustling  at  the  common  task,  all  through 
the  rooms,  corridors,  basements  of  the  Press 
building;  these  people  who  move  incessantly,  like 
Josslyn  himself,  slaves  of  the  clock. 

His  regard  for  these  people  is  very  great.  Yes, 
he  is  among  friends,  day  and  night.  "What  more 
can  a  man  ask  ?  He  thinks,  "Perhaps  there  is  some 
of  all  these  people  in  me.  I  must  have  absorbed  a 
bit  from  all,  during  these  years." 

And  above  this,  there  is  the  inexplicable  bond 
that  holds  him  to  the  paper  itself;  there  is  his 
curious  affection  for  an  inanimate  mass  of  pulp — 
the  paper.  He  will  fight  for  it,  not  for  himself. 
He  will  not  let  it  stumble.    It 

What's  that? 

Yes:   "Governor  dead!" 

The  operator  bounds  from  his  chair.  He  has 
scrawled  the  two  words.  Josslyn,  on  a  quick 
stride,  snatches  the  paper.  He  travels  the  room 
in  leaps,  and  deftly  lifts  the  telephone  receiver. 
There  is  a  tremendous  second  of  waiting,  then : 

"George!  Let  'er  go!  Governor  dead!" 

In  the  moments  while  he  dashed  down  the  room, 
in  that  instant  at  the  telephone,  he  has  thought 


[249  3 DEADLINES 

of  nothing,  he  has  had  not  a  single  tremor ;  action 
has  sublimated  the  doubting  Josslyn. 

He  stands  beside  the  desk,  mentally  numb.  The 
flash  has  come,  the  dreaded  moment  has  passed, 
as  softly  and  nonchalantly  as  a  drop  of  rain.  The 
silent  room  belies  the  fact  that  the  clouds  have 
emitted  a  bolt.  The  clock-hands  seem  to  stand 
still. 

But  presently  there  is  a  thunder  from  below,  a 
churning  of  mighty  monsters.  And  there  come  up, 
distantly,  from  the  streets  the  wails  of  newsboys, 
crying  the  tidings  that  the  august  person  breathes 
no  more. 

And  the  Cub,  entering  a  moment  later,  finds 
Josslyn  smiling. 

[VII] 

SO  it  goes,  the  dim  procession  of  days  and 
nights,  illumined  by  great  flares  from  the 
world  beyond.  The  presses  roar  endlessly,  in  time 
with  the  eternity  of  news. 


The  End 


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